


Fade to Black

by ShannonPhillips



Series: A Little Less Attitude and a Little More Altitude [13]
Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Angst, Blindfolds, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Makeup Sex, Massage, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Mutual Caretaking, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, PIV, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-22 12:46:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 29,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4835939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannonPhillips/pseuds/ShannonPhillips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This series is entirely dedicated to explicit descriptions of all the sex that Kanan and Hera are having in every episode, between cutscenes or right after the credits roll. Fifteen chapters and all of them smutty. It was supposed to be a PWP but it has come to the author's attention that she is incapable of writing those—apologies for the inconvenience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spark of Rebellion

_This message is a warning and reminder for any surviving Jedi. Trust in the Force. Do not return to the Temple; that time has passed, and our future is uncertain. We will each be challenged: our trust, our faith, our friendships. But we must persevere. And in time, a new hope will emerge. May the Force be with you, always._

How many times has Kanan listened to that last message? He knows each word by heart. And yet, so many years later, he can still discover new nuances in the words.

Today, it was the “new hope” that struck him. Just before Ezra returned to the ship, and placed Kanan’s lightsaber, along with the kid’s own future, in his hands.

 _A new hope_. When Kanan was still Caleb, he’d thought maybe it meant…a resurgence. One of the old Masters, hidden on some distant planet, organizing a loyalist counter-force. The possibility that all could still, somehow, be set right.

But it couldn’t. And when he finally understood that—when he knew no salvation was coming—he believed that _a_ _new hope_ meant a new life. It meant leaving the Jedi and the ways of the Force behind. It meant letting Caleb Dume die so that Kanan Jarrus could have a chance to survive.

But now he thinks: maybe it was never about him. And never about the Masters at all. Maybe it’s the kid. The kids: Ezra and the others like him. No matter how effective the Emperor has been at wiping out the Jedi, he can’t prevent new Force-sensitives from being born. Everywhere, across the star systems, there are new younglings awakening to a power beyond themselves. _They_ can be the new hope.

But who will train them?

Kanan sighs. His thoughts are circling now. For better or worse, he’s already made this decision. He took the kid as a padawan—even though Kanan himself never completed his training. He’s committed to something he’s not sure he can **do.**

“You’re brooding.”

Kanan looks up from the empty dejarik board he’s been staring at. He’s not surprised that Hera found him here, in the dim and empty common area; on some level he’s always aware of her presence. But she’s so familiar to him that he doesn’t always consciously mark her approach.

“I’m not brooding,” he says. “I’m thinking.”

“Alone. In the dark.” She slides in next to him, her hand settling lightly on his shoulder. Kanan can’t help but smile a little at the affection in her voice. As always, just having her close lifts his spirits.

Hera believes he’s doing the right thing. She was openly rooting for this outcome ever since he told her his suspicions about Ezra’s Force-sensitivity. He just hopes…

“I just hope I can do right by the kid,” he says.

“You can. You will.” She moves her hand to the back of his neck, kneading the tension there, and he sighs and closes his eyes.

“But I’m not—I was only a padawan. If there was anyone else...”

“There’s such a thing as on-the-job training. You’ve had a lot of it.” Hera’s graceful, assured fingers are finding every knot in his neck and shoulders, and he can’t help but relax under her touch. He leans forward to give her better access. “Zeb and Sabine both look up to you, you know. You’re a natural leader. And a good teacher.”

“This is different,” Kanan grumbles.

“I know. And it might take you a little while to figure out. But you _will_ figure it out.”

He doesn’t answer, just focuses on the sensations of the moment, and lets the whole tangled bundle of anxiety and confusion fall out of his mind. Hera’s touch on his skin makes him feel—like a plant must feel, under the rays of the sun. He draws such strength from her.

After several minutes her hand starts to wander. She pulls his hair-tie loose, threading her fingers through the strands of his hair. And _that’s_ an invitation, as clear as they come. He lifts his head and opens his eyes, turning toward her.

The shadows play over the smooth planes of her face as she smiles. Her eyes are alight with interest. He takes her in his arms and kisses her deeply.

She presses against him, meeting him touch for touch, and when he brushes his hands down the length of her lekku she makes a needy little whimper that triggers an electric response in his body. He whispers against the corner of her mouth: “your bunk or mine?”

“Yours,” she says, her voice roughened with desire. “I’ll meet you there.”

One more kiss, and he lets her go.

Back in his cabin, Kanan changes into his sleepwear (just a soft pair of loose pants) and has a quick wash, and he thinks of all those nights early on. When he went to bed alone, yearning for her, and haunted by her closeness—he could _feel_ her even when he couldn’t touch her.

He was hers already, even back then. He was hers from the first moment their paths ever crossed. So he’s pretty kriffing lucky she decided she liked him.

_Is it lucky for **her** , though? For any of them?_

He wasn’t aware of the smile on his lips until he feels it fade away. There it is, the thought that’s been circling around under all the others _: They’ll never stop hunting us, now that they know what I am_. _Everyone on this ship. We’ve always been in danger…but never like this._

Old images threaten to rise. He pushes them down reflexively, ruthlessly.

And then she’s here. He strides to the cabin door, palming it open just as Hera, on the other side, reaches for the switch. She tilts her head and eyes him critically. “You’re brooding again.”

“Thinking,” Kanan says.

“Stop thinking.” She puts her palms on his bare chest and pushes lightly: he steps back, and when the cabin door slides shut behind her, he hooks an arm around her waist and pulls her tight.

She’s wearing a soft headscarf and her thermal sleep suit: leggings and a close-fitting wrap-around top made of some undyed, natural material. Together they cover her from neck to wrist and ankle. It’s simple, and practical, and about as far from anybody’s idea of sexy lingerie as it’s possible to get.

Kanan finds it almost unbearably alluring.

And yes, partly it’s because the sleep suit hugs her curves in all the places her bulky flight suit usually obscures. Partly it’s because he’s just _that_ far gone; she could probably wear Jawa robes and he’d find it arousing.

But mostly it’s that—Hera is kind, she’s generous, but she’s not a trusting person by nature. She doesn’t show vulnerability around many people. She certainly didn’t around Kanan, not at first.

And now, she comes to him without armor or artifice or any kind of hesitation. Her mundane, practical sleepwear is truly intimate in a way that no lacy, silky get-up could ever be. Because she trusts him.

_She trusts me, and I’ve put her in the worst kind of danger._

“Stop. Thinking,” Hera murmurs again, and tugs his head down to hers.

Her arms around his neck; her fingers in his hair. Her lips parting beneath his own. Deliberately, he pulls on the trailing point of her headscarf, and feels her shiver against him as he draws it down over her lekku and lets it fall to the floor. He kisses her hungrily and runs his palms over her bare skin.

“Kanan,” she moans, and pushes him again—this time, onto his bunk. He goes where she wants him, lounging back on his elbows with one knee cocked, and is only aware when her gaze sharpens that the drape of his thin pants must be presenting a rather provocative sight. Kanan grins slyly and cants his hips to accentuate the effect.

Hera hums appreciatively and unties her top, shrugging it to the floor. In the next minute she’s shimmying out of the leggings. And then, fully naked, she straddles him on the bunk.

“You are so beautiful,” Kanan says fervently. He reaches for her, running his hands up her thighs, and she leans in to kiss him again. Her hands on his chest, her hips pressed tight against his, her mouth nipping at his hungrily. “I love you,” he says between kisses— _and I will never let them take you_ , he thinks—

And just for an instant, memories flash. Master Billaba is falling in the strobe of blaster fire. An eyeblink, and the image changes: now it’s Hera falling facefirst into the dirt, with the faceless troopers looming behind her.

Kanan goes rigid. It’s just a moment; he has control of himself in the next second. But Hera pulls back, concerned. “Kanan?” she says.

“It’s nothing,” he says, forcing a smile, and tries to tug her back down.

But she rolls off him instead, pressing herself into the narrow space between his side and the wall of the bunk. She props herself on one arm. Her other hand lingers on his chest. “All right,” she says. “Talk to me.”

“I’d rather…” he says, trailing off as he lifts his head closer to hers, a clear invitation for a kiss.

“Nuh uh,” she says. “Talk first.”

He sighs and drops his head back to the pillow. “It’s just—there’s a reason I went so many years without ever…doing anything like what I did today.”

“I know,” she says gravely.

“Everything will be different now. Harder. They won’t overlook us any more. They’re going to be relentless.”

“I know,” she says again.

He lifts his hand, brushes her cheek with the back of his knuckles. “You’re in much more danger now. You all are. Because of me.”

She nods, and he finds himself swamped with sudden relief: “Hah,” he breathes. He lets his hand fall to her bare shoulder, sweeping her skin with his thumb.

“What’s funny?”

“I don’t know. I’m glad you didn’t try to argue. To tell me the threat’s not real.”

“I know it’s real,” she says.

“I spent half a lifetime running,” he says. “Hiding. I didn’t do it for some kind of childish misunderstanding.”

She grasps his hand, squeezing tightly. “Of course not,” she says. “But you’re not a child any longer. And what you did today was _right_.”

He nods. “Yeah. It was right. But was it worth it?”

“Ask the Wookiees.”

He thinks about that.

And Hera says: “What you did today pushed up the timetable. But, you know, we never could have flown under the radar forever. We would have gotten to this point sooner or later, no matter what. We’ll just have to be more careful now.” She lets go of his hand to brush a lock of hair back from his face. “You’re not alone any more, Kanan.”

“That’s what worries me,” he says grimly.

“Oh, love. We’re stronger together. Stronger than the Empire could ever imagine.”

“Can I kiss you now?”

She studies his face. He’s not sure what she sees there, but it’s enough. “Yes,” she says.

So he pushes himself up on one elbow, twisting to face her. He slides his other hand behind her neck and pulls her close, kissing her softly and slowly. She nestles against him and skims a palm over the muscles of his shoulder and back.

_This is everything I never meant to allow. This is exactly why I ran so far, and so long. Would they be safer if I left?_

He grips her more tightly at the thought. And she feels it, of course—she knows him so well. Her hand stills. To forestall any more conversation, he rolls back and pulls her down with him, guiding her weight until it settles on top of him again. He kisses her neck and strokes her tchun, making her gasp and surge against him.

This is, perhaps, dirty sabacc. Hera is extraordinarily responsive and after so many years, Kanan knows exactly how to push her into extremities of sensation. Much more of this and she certainly won’t be in any state to pepper him with questions.

In fairness, it drives him wild, too.

**_Could_ ** _I leave? If it was to save them?_

He closes his eyes tightly, burying his face in her shoulder.

“Kanan,” she murmurs.

He makes an inarticulate noise of protest. “Kanan,” she says again. “It’s all right.”

“I don’t want to talk,” he says. “I just want you.”

“And _I_ want _you_ ,” she says. There’s a laugh in her voice. “I want you right here and brooding. Lie back.”

She pushes his shoulder, lightly, until he yields and settles back. He raises an eyebrow. “You want me brooding?”

“If that’s what you need right now,” she says, and puts a finger on his lips. “I thought you didn’t want to talk.”

Then her finger trails downward, scratching through his beard, tracing over his throat and down his chest. She shifts her weight back and lets her other fingers brush his skin as well, sliding over the muscles of his stomach. When she reaches the waistband of his pants she tugs them down, moving aside just long enough to pull them off him entirely.

And then she’s touching him, stroking, licking—skin on skin and the warm wetness of her mouth, and—

_And no. I can’t leave them. I won’t._

His choices have been made. He’s promised to train the kid. He’s made promises to Hera, too. And they have the right to choose their own risks.

She takes him more deeply in her mouth: he groans aloud. Gently, he strokes the back of her head, following the curve of her lek from root to tip. He rolls the end between his fingers and feels the reverberations of her moan.

He would die to protect Hera, or any of them. But so long as he lives, he belongs with her.

Kissing, sucking, stroking, teasing—they pass pleasure back and forth, until Kanan’s not sure if he’s feeling his own body’s responses or sharing hers. The waves of sensation build, and conscious thought falls away. “Hera,” he gasps, arching his back: and then the world explodes into sweetness.

When he comes back to himself, she’s curled against his chest. He strokes her gently, tenderly, gradually touching her in more and more intimate places. She’s very close already; when she finally surrenders, shaking and crying out, he feels the echo in his own body.

She sighs and rolls to the side. He pulls a blanket over them both, tucking it around her—she feels the cold more keenly than he does—and cradles her against him.

“Still brooding?” she asks, voice muzzy with sleepiness and satisfaction. “Thinking, I mean.”

“No,” he says, and holds her a little more tightly.

“Good. You’ll work it out, Kanan.”

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, we will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this you should definitely check out [Close Only Counts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3967084) by gondalsqueen, which is a) an excellent story from start to finish, and b) contains in Chapter 9 a scene that was one of my inspirations while writing this fic.


	2. Droids in Distress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content/trigger warning for altered mind states and substance use.

Hera dusts off her hands as Kanan checks the seal on the last of the crates. “Got everything?” he asks.

“You got a great deal on those droids!” she says happily. “We’ve got food and fuel for the next month. And one of those crates is for Sabine—“

“I couldn’t possibly guess which one,” Kanan says drily, and they both take a moment to admire the truly ostentatious number of warning signs plastered on the sides of the (very securely restrained) box in the corner. DANGER, it blares in three languages. HAZARDOUS MATERIALS. DO NOT DROP. DO NOT JOSTLE. DO NOT INSULT OR EXCITE.

It’s been a good day after a couple of tough ones. Zeb’s doing all right—just needs some rest—and Ezra’s thrilled to get started on his Jedi training. Hera’s quietly proud of Kanan for stepping up on that project.

“There was even a little bit left over,” Hera says with studied nonchalance, “so I picked up a little something for us.”

That gets his attention. She can feel his sea-colored eyes focus on her in a way that makes the tips of her lekku tingle. “Us,” he drawls.

“Mmm. Stop by my cabin later.”

“Aye-aye, captain.”

***

It’s such a relief to have enough supplies for a fresh-cooked meal and a leisurely-plotted return trip to Lothal. Hera even turns up the ship’s temperature in celebration. Generally she keeps it as chilly as she can comfortably manage—both to save on expenses, and to minimize the Ghost’s thermal signature. But it’s nice to be able to strip out of her heavy, layered clothing for a night. She pulls on a short, thin-strapped tunic and sets the lighting in her cabin to a soft ambient glow.

When the door opens for Kanan, she has the reward of seeing his eyes darken at the sight of her. Hera knows perfectly well that sentients of many species and genders find her attractive, and Kanan has never hidden his appreciation. But it’s gratifying to be able to provoke such a reaction deliberately.

And he’s not the only one admiring the view. Probably in response to the temperature change, he’s stripped off his armor and jacket. The thin, short-sleeved shirt he wears underneath stretches tightly over the well-defined muscles of his chest and shoulder, leaving little to the imagination. A slight smile curves his lips as he notices the track of her gaze. She steps to the doorway to take his hand and draw him inside.

He bends a little, as he usually does when she’s near. It only makes her more aware of his height and sheer physical bulk. He’s looking down at her with a smoldering glint in his eyes.

“So,” he says, and the deep tones of his voice make her breath catch. “What’s this you picked up?”

She picks up a little vial of dark red oil. “This,” she says. “It’s not something you see in a shop very often. It’s—“

“Navarryl extract,” Kanan says.

“Now how did you know that?” She’s a little disappointed not to be able to surprise him, but more than that, she’s honestly curious. “You told me you’ve never been to Ryloth.”

“I haven’t. But I spent some time working security for a bar in a very poorly regulated area of Crystal City. A few doors down, there was a little shop that sold…well. ‘Erotic delights from a thousand star systems’ was what the banner said. But really it was a couple dozen at most.”

“And I suppose you tried them all,” Hera teases.

“The bar-owner’s daughter and I worked our way through a good two-thirds.” His voice is neutral, but his face has closed. Hera squeezes his hand reassuringly.

“What happened with her?” she asks.

He’s staring off at some point beyond her shoulder. “I came home with a Nemoidean cock ring and she said, ‘Is that a marriage proposal, because if so, I accept.’ I packed up and left the next morning.” His eyes flick back to hers, and his mouth twists. “It’s all right to despise me,” he says. “I despised myself.”

“I don’t despise you,” Hera says softly. “I just think it sounds like a lonely way to live.”

He tugs her closer, so she steps in and leans against his chest. His hand settles on the small of her back. Familiar motions, familiar comfort. After a moment she says: “What do you think made things different with us?”

“For one thing,” he grins down at her, “you weren’t pouring watered-down drinks. You were sneaking into high-security facilities and blowing up moons. So that was different.”

“ _I_ didn’t blow it up!” Hera protests.

His hand moves in a small circle on her back. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet and serious. “The others all wanted me at my worst. You needed me at my best.”

Hera turns to place a soft kiss against his shoulder. She knows what it costs him to speak about the past, what a gift he offers her every time he bares these memories. A wave of tenderness sweeps over her. She wonders if he can sense it; she hopes he can.

“Well,” she says, her voice deliberately bright. “I’m surprised this seedy sex shop of yours had Navarryl oil. Are you sure it was the real thing?”

“No,” Kanan says. “I wasn’t willing to try it. Isn’t it related to ryll?”

“No,” Hera says firmly. “Or, I mean, yes, but only in the way that…I don’t know. That a blaster is related to a firefly. Navarryl is natural and it’s been part of Twi’lek ceremonies and culture for millennia. It turns out that the trees only grow over ryll deposits, which is why most of the groves have been cut down now. But the sap extract has a narrower effect, and it’s not addictive. It only works if you’re already feeling…certain things.”

“Now I want to hear more about these traditional ceremonies,” Kanan says.

Hera pulls back to give him a chiding look. “Sex isn’t the _only_ thing it works for.” Then she taps her finger against his chest. “But,” she admits, “it’s what I’m planning to use it for now. I mean, if you’re interested.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle as he looks down at her. “I’m here to ensure the success of all your plans.”

“Come here, then.” She moves to the bunk, sitting down cross-legged on one end. Kanan unstraps his thigh holster and kicks off his boots before coming to join her. He settles on the other end of the bunk, facing her.

Hera uncorks the vial and pours the contents into one palm. The oil is thick and carries a heady, smoky scent. Her skin immediately begins to tingle, a pleasant sensation of warmth spreading over her whole hand. She tips her hand to let the excess liquid run off into her other palm. Then she holds out both hands, palm up, towards Kanan.

“So you know how this works?” she asks.

He lays his hands on top of hers, palm to palm. “I know it’s supposed to create a low-level empathic and sensory link between people, even non-Force sensitives,” he says. “And if both people in the link are feeling something…intense…it creates a kind of feedback loop where the sensations are amplified.”

“They use it in mind probes now,” Hera says, bitterness shading her voice. “It’s supposed to be a spiritual experience. Just like ryll is supposed to be used to make medicine, not mind-killing spice.”

“Maybe once we’re done overthrowing the Empire and putting an end to the slave trade,” Kanan says, “we can tackle the spice problem.”

The words are teasing and his voice is fond. But just for a second, Hera feels a flicker of pain that is not her own. Her grudges are a slow-burning fire that she carries in her bones. His are born of the conviction that he somehow _should_ be able to right these wrongs—that each of the galaxy’s continuing atrocities represents a personal failure of responsibility on the part of Kanan Jarrus.

“It’s working,” she says.

His fingers close around hers. “So let’s try for some intense sensation.”

Then he’s guiding her back, moving over to her to cover her body with his own. His hands slide up her arms, the residue of the oil making her skin tingle wherever he touches her. She tugs up his shirt and runs her palms along the muscles of his back.

His head dips near hers, his gaze intent, and she thinks he’s about to kiss her. But instead he moves his hands up, grasping both of her lekku and deliberately running his palms down the length of each. A sudden, sharp-sweet crescendo of pleasure explodes from her scalp and sweeps down over her entire body. She arcs up, pressing her body against Kanan’s and incoherently crying out his name. Her hands twist in the fabric of his shirt. He’s relentless—she has no time to recover before he’s dropped his head to her shoulder, nuzzling and kissing and sucking at the end of her tchin. Each play of lips and tongue against her sensitive skin sends a fresh surge of heat through her body. She’s moaning, panting, grinding her hips against him shamelessly—

—And then she’s seeing herself through his eyes, wanton and beautiful, the absolute sexiest thing in this or any other galaxy. His response to the sight of her is primal and powerful, but laced all through it she senses more complicated emotions: a kind of awed reverence and a fierce protectiveness, mingling and overlapping. In that instant it all seems to make perfect sense, although she’ll be confused when she remembers her own thoughts later: Yes, of course she’s a sacred vision. Yes, of course he’ll guard these moments from all the worlds.

She feels his desire as he opens her tunic. The jerk of his cock as her breasts and the smooth folds of her sex are bared. And then she is back to herself, feeling his fingers and his mouth closing on the tight ache of her nipples, and she is tossing her head from side to side as the pleasure and the need build unbearably.

“Kanan,” she pants. “Love, please—“

He drops kisses down her belly, parts her thighs. His mouth on her is electrifying; he groans and she knows he feels it too. She tastes herself on his tongue. It swirls over her, circling, insistent, returning again and again to the center of her desire. Each time his tongue flicks over her waves of sensation swamp her, and each is more intense than the last. He shudders with them too.

She trembles and cries out, close now, so close. She feels his fingers slide inside her—

She feels the warmth and the tightness that surrounds him as he presses into her—

And then he withdraws, and the loss of his touch leaves her empty and aching. She whimpers in protest: “Trust me,” he says hoarsely.

And she does, of course she does, because she knows what he intends and she feels how he burns for her. A few short moments as he sheds his clothing, and then the warmth of his mouth is on her again, and she could weep with the sweetness of it.

She can also feel Kanan’s cock in his hand; she can feel the tension building with every stroke, even as he licks and teases her. She isn’t aware of the little mewling noises of need that she’s making until she realizes that hearing them is about to tip him over the edge of release.

She feels it take him, the shooting intensity of delight—and then—and then there is no more thought, just brilliant fire along every nerve of her body. For long timeless moments she is wrung with pleasure beyond anything she has known. She feels it as herself, she feels it as Kanan, she feels it as Kanan sharing her own experience… until at last it ebbs, and it’s almost a relief to come back to herself, sweating and tangled in the sheets of her bunk.

Kanan recovers first. He rearranges himself to lie beside her, pulling her gently into his arms while she can still do little more than catch her breath. Lying against him, floating in the aftermath of sensation, she catches a stray echo of thought and teases it into focus: “You’re…glad that I could feel that…too? What do you mean, _too?_ Is this what it’s _always_ like for you?”

Tenderness touched with amusement. He answers straightforwardly, though: “No, I can’t usually sense you so perfectly. Just the things you feel most strongly.”

“I feel _everything_ strongly when we’re in bed,” she protests.

“Well, I wasn’t going to say that.” His smugness and her mock indignation dissolve in mutual affection.

And then: “I might be able to show you something,” he says. “Before this wears off.” Behind his words she can sense a guarded kind of hope. This is important to him.

“All right,” she says.

“Close your eyes. Try to feel what I’m feeling.”

She does, but all that she catches from him is the awareness of her own heartbeat slowing back to a normal rate, and her breathing growing more steady. She still almost feels like she’s floating, like the intensity of their shared experience has left her empty and loose.

She’s about to open her eyes and tell him that she’s sorry, she can’t feel anything. But then there’s a minute shift in her awareness and she realizes that _nothing_ is _everything:_ that it’s not just her own heartbeat she’s feeling, but Kanan’s, and Ezra’s, and Zeb and Sabine, and beyond them stars and galaxies eternal. And it’s not a heartbeat at all, not breathing, but some kind of deeper and vaster rhythm from which both hearts and breath are born. The rhythm holds them all: they are dancers, all of them, from the smallest infant baby to the oldest creature in the universe. Every step that any one of them takes reverberates through the entire pattern. It affects them all, even if they never know it.

There are tears on her cheeks.

“I see it as a web,” Kanan says softly. “You feel it as a dance.”

“This is—“ she takes a deep and shaky breath. “This is the Force?”

“I wanted you to see it, because.” He swallows. “This is what I cut myself off from for so long. This is what you brought me back to.”

It slips away all too soon, although she knows he holds the awareness for her as long as he can. When it’s gone she’s left with only one certainty: “You _have_ to show this to Ezra.”

“I’m trying,” he says, a note of frustration in his voice. “It’s been rocky. I’m not even sure where to start with him—at the Temple we were training as soon as we could walk.”

“Why not start with the lightsaber? He seemed drawn to it.”

“That is—,” Kanan starts, and then abruptly shifts his tone: “that is not such a bad idea, actually.”

“Then,” Hera says firmly, “you need a good night’s sleep. Are you staying here or going back to your cabin?”

He scrubs his face and sits up. “Going back, I suppose.”

“Don’t forget your pants,” she says helpfully, and he laughs.

She kisses him goodnight before he goes. “Thank you for that,” she murmurs. “It was…more than I expected.”

“You’re more than I expect every day,” he says.

“Sweet talker. Go to bed.”

That night in her dreams Hera dances: with Kanan, with her father, with all the people she has ever loved. And the music never ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **update** : Look! There's an illustration now! Art by Pornflakes.
> 
>  


	3. Fighter Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! More porn!

“Oh, and don’t even _think_ about coming back without at least one meiloorun fruit. Clear?”

“Clear,” Ezra and Zeb chorus dejectedly, and trudge down the gangway.

Kanan pitches his voice for her hearing alone: “How do you expect them to find meiloorun on Lothal?” From his tone, it’s obvious that he understands _finding_ the fruit is not her objective.

Hera just watches them go with a slow and wicked smile.

But after the bickering duo has disappeared into Lothal’s tall grasses, there’s still the cargo hold to address: the crates are in shambles. Hera sighs and begins re-stacking. Lift from the knees.

Kanan goes for the heaviest ones. He’s probably not even showing off. Although once they have things back in some semblance of order, his hand settles on the small of her back. “So,” he says. “Looks like we have the ship to ourselves?”

Hera knows exactly what he’s asking, but she’s in a mischievous mood and she thinks she’ll make him work for it. “Sabine’s still here,” she points out, all innocence.

He drops his hand—oh, he’s mistaken her teasing for disinterest. He’s even smiling down at her to show that he doesn’t feel rebuffed. “That’s true,” he says. “Maybe I’ll see if Chopper’s up for a game of dejarik.”

Hera grabs a fistful of his jacket to keep him from leaving. “On the other hand,” she says, “Sabine’s working on an art project. If I know her, she’ll be busy for the rest of the day.”

“In that case,” Kanan says, “dejarik can wait.”

He kisses her slowly and gently; she’s more insistent, her mouth hungry against his, until his arms tighten around her and the kiss turns into something urgent and demanding. She slides a hand to the back of his neck, twining her fingers in his ponytail. She knows that it’s not the same as when he strokes her lekku—there’s not anything like the same level of erotic charge—but _she_ finds it thrilling to touch him there nonetheless.

She uses the hand tangled in his hair to tilt his head fractionally, allowing her to tease the skin beneath his ear and jaw with her lips and tongue. His breath catches and he pulls her even more tightly against him. His other hand moves to her chin, finding the catch of her pilot’s cap. She feels the cool shock of air on her bare skin as he pulls it loose.

He nuzzles the side of her cheek, his breath hot against her earcones. She tugs at the buckles of his armor. As she works at his clothing he kisses the sides of her lekku, and a pool of heat spills down her limbs and gathers in her core.

The armor falls away. She starts on his jacket: “Maybe we should take this to your cabin,” he murmurs between kisses.

But her devilish mood persists. “I want you here,” Hera says. “Right here.”

“Here?”

A few deft motions, and the jacket comes free. She pulls Kanan’s head back down to hers, flicks her tongue over his earlobe, and whispers: “I want you inside me.”

He makes a raw sound of assent, and slides his hands down to cup the swell of her ass. With a smooth motion he lifts her, pivoting to set her down atop the nearest stack of crates. His eyes slide down her body and his hands follow, pulling at the buttons and straps of her flight suit. She arches her back and wraps her legs around his waist, interrupting his work to claim another kiss.

Despite her interference, he manages to strip the outer layer of her flight suit away, and to pull open the side-clasps of her shirt. She feels more debauched like that—perched on a stack of crates now draped with shrugged-off layers of clothing, her opened shirt hiding nothing from his gaze—than if she’d been fully naked in bed. To judge from the intensity of his eyes raking over her, he feels it too.

He’s only stripped to the waist. She hooks her fingers in his belt and pulls him hard against her, grinding her bare cunt against the swell of his trousers. He groans again, throwing back his head, and she nips at the skin of his shoulder. His hands travel up the curve of her back, deliberately brushing her lekku and making her squirm.

Then he’s caressing her waist, her belly, and moving up to cup her breasts. Hera closes her eyes, breath catching. He kisses her deeply and fervently as his fingers flick and tease her. She grasps his shoulders and leans into his touch.

At length he shifts, wrapping one arm behind her and leaning her back. Her lips are left swollen and throbbing from the heat of his kiss. Then his mouth is on her breasts, licking and sucking, moving from one to the other. Hera tangles her fingers in his hair and whimpers.

His other hand slides down, finding the places where she’s pressed most tightly against him. She feels the fullness and the stretch of his fingers pushing into her. His thumb sweeps across her tchilla and a sharp pulse of pleasure sweeps over her: she cries out with it, arching in his arms.

A second finger, and it’s almost too much, but then his thumb is rubbing and circling and all she feels is the sweetness of it. Her cries are echoing in the hold. Her entire body is singing with his touch. He doesn’t stop until she spills over, shuddering, clutching him, and he holds her tightly until the storm of sensation ebbs. “Hera,” he breathes, as if her name is a benediction.

“Now,” she says, “I want you now.” Her fingers find his belt; she tugs it open. He buries his face in her shoulder, kissing her softly. When she draws out his cock he gasps her name again.

His hands move to her hips, shifting her on the crate. She feels his cock pushing against her. “Talk to me,” he says hoarsely.

“Yes,” she says, winding her arms around his neck. “Yes, more—“ She breaks off, gasping, as he drives shallowly into her. “More,” she says, “more—aah! Hold on…” But he’s already stopped, feeling her tense up. He presses small soft kisses against her neck and sweeps a palm across her skin. Her body relaxes: “More,” she whispers.

Eddies and echoes of pleasure sweep through her as he sinks into her fully. She floats in the aftermath of release, matching Kanan’s movements with her own, filled and held by him.

He draws back just enough to look at her, not breaking the connection of their bodies: his gaze is heavy-lidded and intent. She rakes her fingers over his shoulders and down his back. He pushes into her more strongly, making her shudder and gasp. “Yes,” she pants, “love, yes.”

She holds him as tightly as she can and rocks against him, taking him deeply, pushing forward to meet him with every thrust. She feels his restraint, but she wants him—she wants _all_ of him. She whispers encouragement, urging him with her voice and hands and the movement of her body to abandon himself. He makes an inchoate noise, halfway between need and pain, and then surrenders. He drives into her again and again, and the sheer intensity of sensation swamps her. “ _Kanan_ ,” she cries, and clings to him as he spends himself inside her.

When they’ve both recovered, she lays a hand on his cheek and leans in for one last soft, tender kiss. Then she gives him one of her sweetest smiles and asks: “Better than dejarik?”

Kanan laughs outright, and holds out a hand to help her jump down from the crates.

“Any day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW illustration of this scene by Pornflakes [now available](http://41.media.tumblr.com/9548f0b82735b702a08b02985ff053eb/tumblr_inline_nv6szjBxur1r0uirk_500.jpg)!


	4. Rise of the Old Masters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hera and Kanan try to have sex but they're both exhausted and keep falling asleep. It's porn for married people with kids!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [gondalsqueen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gondalsqueen/pseuds/gondalsqueen) for beta reading.

The days are better, now that Kanan and Ezra have settled into a real training routine. The kid is making progress. He’s at his best when the stakes are highest; in fact, Kanan’s floated the idea of giving Ezra a solo mission. He has growing confidence in the kid’s abilities—and in Kanan’s own ability to teach him.

The days are better. The nights are worse.

Master Billaba’s final moments have been a staple of Kanan’s nightmares for fourteen years, but now Master Unduli’s death is seared there too. And other faces from his childhood have begun to torment him: how many of those wise and brave Masters survived the attack of the clones, only to spend their remaining days in desolate prisons—ultimately earning no reprieve? How many walked to their grisly executions with the same despair he saw on Luminara’s face?

He’s begun to avoid sleep, brewing pot after pot of caf and spending the night shift making small repairs around the ship. He can keep going for a while like this, pushing through the exhaustion with focus and determination. Not forever. But for a while.

He lets himself believe that none of the others have noticed. There’s no day and night in space anyway: they do try to keep to a standard rotation’s schedule of work and rest, but everyone’s sleep patterns are a little different, and it’s not unusual for any of them to stay up several shifts in a row.

But nothing on the Ghost escapes Hera’s notice.

About a week into it, she comes to find him. He’s up in the gun turret, wedged beneath the console, trying to track down an intermittent fault in the wiring. There’s been no major failure—not yet—but he’s noticed a stutter in the firing rate that could spell trouble down the line.

Hera climbs the ladder just far enough to put her elbows on the floor. She rests her chin on her hands and regards him with those huge green eyes.

“Hey, why aren’t you asleep?” he says, and immediately feels foolish as she tilts her head and stares back at him meaningfully. “Look, I just thought I’d see if I could track down the hiccup in this console.”

“And last night you disassembled and rebuilt the coolant system in the galley. The night before it was the pressure valves in the airlock. The night before that…”

“We all have trouble sleeping sometimes.”

“Sure,” she says, and waits.

“I’ve had these cycles before. It will pass.”

“You never stayed awake this long before,” she says. “What’s going on, Kanan?”

He sighs and puts down the pliers. “The Spire,” he admits.

“The Inquisitor?”

“No. I mean, the guy’s face is a nightmare, all right. But…it’s Master Unduli I dream about.”

He has to look away from her: he can’t stand the pity in her eyes. “These dreams. Is it a Jedi thing?” she asks softly.

“I don’t know. I mean, she’s dead. She should be one with the Force. But I _felt_ her on Stygeon Prime.” He swallows hard. “I can’t stop thinking that we left her there. There’s some part of her, even if it’s just an echo, that’s still trapped in that terrible place. And how many others—” He breaks off.

Hera looks down, silent a moment. Then she asks: “You said this has happened before?”

He rolls a shoulder. “A spate of very bad dreams? Yes.”

“You haven’t done this since I’ve known you.”

“I guess it hasn’t happened since then,” he says. “I used to just get blackout drunk, that usually solved the problem. Or start a bar fight. You can get a really good night’s sleep if someone punches you into oblivion.”

“I could try it,” Hera jokes. Then she stretches out an arm, reaching for him along the floor. “Or I could try something else.”

He can feel the warmth of her concern, but it shames him. He hates that he’s burdened her. He doesn’t take her hand. “I don’t…I don’t think I would be very good company right now,” he says.

She doesn’t move. “Is that a yes or a no? I can’t tell.”

“Hera,” he breathes, and finally lays his hand in hers. Her long, graceful fingers twine through his. “The day I turn you down is the day I’m dead.”

“Then put my gun turret back together and come to bed.”

By the time he makes it to her cabin, she’s already lying in her bunk. In fact, he realizes as he steps inside that she’s asleep. She was clearly waiting for him—she’s naked, her slender body half-covered by a blanket—but her only movement is the gentle rise and fall of her breath.

He hesitates, and almost turns to go, but then he thinks: _she’ll be cold_. Generally she sleeps in a warm thermal layer. So he strips off his clothes, folds them neatly beside her bunk, and eases in beside her.

He tries not to disturb her, but she shifts when he settles alongside her, murmuring: “Kanan?”

“Mm,” he agrees, and crooks an arm around her. “I’m here. Go back to sleep.”

Instead she rolls to face him, pulling him closer. “I’m awake,” she insists, her voice heavy with sleep. He can’t help but smile. He kisses her gently; she makes a soft hum of satisfaction and nestles into him. He runs his hand over the curve of her waist and hip, enjoying the warmth and softness of her bare skin.

She’s only half-awake, but whenever he stops kissing or caressing her, she’ll rouse enough to tug at his shoulders or lift her mouth to his. He keeps all his movements slow and gentle, and she makes soft sleepy noises of pleasure: almost as close as a Twi’lek can come to purring.

As for Kanan—even exhausted as he is, his body responds to her. But there’s no urgency in it. Sometimes he burns for her: tonight it’s only the embers of desire, a banked fire that spreads a pleasant warmth through his core. She’s here; she’s his. He doesn’t need anything more.

He strokes and kisses her, cups her breasts, traces the outline of her tattoos with his tongue. She moans and shifts against him; her eyes flicker but don’t open. He has to admit that spending all night doing this sounds better than rewiring the gun turret.

But she needs rest. So he makes his touch lighter and slower, trying to soothe her into a deeper sleep. He runs his hand down her back again and again, each time a bit more slowly, and listens to her breathing grow deeper and more even.

_Luminara Unduli is staring at nothing; her gaze is broken and defeated. “Master?” Kanan says, but she isn’t there—or rather, she is, but he wasn’t. Nobody was there when Luminara took her last hopeless step into the gas chamber, except for whatever sadistic observer actually_ filmed _the horror of her death, and left the hologram to play over and over and over in the empty cell…_

_She’s still there. She’s still there._

“Kanan?” Hera asks muzzily, and he realizes that he’d drifted off long enough to fall into the nightmare again. He must have woken her with his thrashing.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I told you I wouldn’t be good company.” He sits up, disentangling his limbs from hers.

“Stay,” she says, her hand on his arm. “Please.”

She draws him back down, wraps her arms around him, kisses him softly. He sighs and surrenders to her. She draws her fingers down his shoulder and arm, up over his chest, back down—low enough to make his breath catch. Her touch moves on, roving over his body as he kisses her. He’s half-hard again.

She pushes him back against the bed, drawing one knee over his leg and tracing little whorls in his chest hair with her fingers. Her mouth travels down, little teasing kisses over his neck and shoulder. He closes his eyes, letting the pleasure of her touch wash over him.

_Depa Billaba is falling face-forward into the mud, her back burnt with blaster fire. “Master!” Caleb shouts, but he isn’t there—nobody is there to catch Master Billaba, because her padawan has already run, and she’s still there…_

“Hush, love,” Hera says, and Kanan wakes up long enough to kiss her again: but he’s so, so tired, and she’s very warm and soft, and his eyes drift closed again…

“Kanan? Want some breakfast? Zeb cooked something with fried tubers and crispy bits of meat, it’s really good.”

Kanan blinks awake. Hera’s standing over him—she’s fully dressed. He pushes himself up on one elbow. “How long did I sleep?”

“Two shifts.” Her eyes are dancing with affection. “You must be starving.”

“I could eat.” He swings himself up and off the bunk.

“I’ll meet you there.”

He catches her hand as she turns away. “Hey,” he says. “Thank you. That was better than the idea about the punching.” He bends his head, brushing his lips over the back of her hand, then releases her.

“Punching’s still on the table,” she says archly. “Whatever you did to the gun turret made it even spottier. After you eat, I want you to go check the wiring again.”

“Will do.”

He watches the sway of her hips as she leaves, and finds he’s looking forward not only to Zeb’s cooking, but to Ezra’s training, and Hera’s teasing, and Sabine’s latest masterpiece…and even to Chopper’s cranky commentary.

It’s going to be another good day.


	5. Breaking Ranks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Kanan takes up needlepoint and Hera learns to yodel. NO, THEY HAVE SEX, WHAT ELSE ARE YOU EXPECTING BY NOW?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, special thanks to [gondalsqueen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gondalsqueen/pseuds/gondalsqueen) for beta reading.

One thing Kanan can say about his life: it’s not boring. But it does have its own rhythms. There are patterns that become ordinary, actions he’s taken so many times that they feel commonplace.

The weeks Ezra spends undercover are as ordinary as life ever gets, aboard the Ghost. Hera spends a lot of time researching, trying to piece together the movements of the big kyber shipment from the scraps of information they’ve managed to assemble. Kanan plans tactics, running through likely scenarios based on what he knows of Imperial security procedures and responses. They pull a couple of short runs smuggling illicit cargo so they’ll have the credits to keep going for a while.

They get reports from Ezra at regular intervals, and Kanan tries not to worry whenever communication gets spotty. He has confidence in the kid. Before the fall of the Republic, a padawan of Ezra’s age would have regularly been tackling dangerous missions—Caleb wasn’t any older when he was sent to the front lines. Ezra can handle this.

(He worries anyway.)

Later he’ll look back on these quiet moments and wish he’d cherished them more at the time. But life is normal. Ordinary. Mundane.

This is normal:

_Hera settles back against him, adjusting her lekku so they fall over his shoulder. Her bare skin is warm against his own. He kisses her neck and slides his hands around her waist. She sighs, relaxing into him. He traces the outline of her earcone with his tongue and caresses her breasts. In just a few minutes she’ll be writhing against him, which he will very much enjoy, not least because her ass is grinding against his cock. He will take his time stroking and teasing her. She is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, and he loves her, and he will tell her that again and again._

This is ordinary:

_An exchange of glances in a corridor leads to a heated kiss, Hera on her tiptoes and Kanan pressed against the bulkhead. She slides her hands beneath his clothing. His awareness narrows, tightening to encompass only her touch._

_They fall into the nearest bunk (his), shedding clothing and armor as quickly as they can. He presses himself over her, his cock rubbing against her belly, and she surges up to grind her hips against his. They move together fervently, urgently, their mouths meeting and their hands twining._

_She finds release first, clutching him and shuddering. Afterwards she reaches for him, and her skillful hands unravel him completely._

This is mundane:

_Hera stretches and swivels in her pilot’s chair. “Ugh,” she says. “Foot cramps. Kanan, do you mind…”_

_“Not at all,” he says. She draws off her boots and stretches, lifting one small shapely foot to Kanan’s lap. He wraps one hand around the base of her heel and with the other begins to rub the pad of her foot, working in methodical circles with strong consistent pressure._

_“Mmmmm,” Hera sighs happily._

_He works his way down slowly to the sole of her heel, gradually increasing the pressure of his fingers as he goes. “Ahhhh,” Hera moans. “Oh, don’t stop, that’s wonderful. Oh,_ Kanan _.”_

_He shifts uncomfortably, suddenly aware of a certain…tightness…in his clothing. Those particular sounds that Hera’s making evoke a rather primal response in him._ _He breathes deeply and forces himself to focus. He envisions a golden rejuvenating light surrounding Hera and easing all her pains. He’ll never be a Jedi healer, but that doesn’t mean he can’t give a little extra kick to a footrub._

_She moans again, and his focus is lost. He_ _brings both his thumbs to her heel, rubbing back and forth, and tries to ignore the throbbing of his cock._

_“Kanan, oh…oh! Nnnnnngg…”_

_Kanan bites his lip. Small circles around the ankle bone, not too hard. He shifts again, trying—and utterly failing—to find a position that will ease the pressure._

_He uses his fist to work the muscles in the arch of her foot, then his fingers to massage each toe. Her cries are electrifying. When did it get unbearably hot in the cockpit? He’s going to get through this, blast it._

_“Yes…yes…mmmmmm…”_

_“Other foot,” he says with grim determination._

_“Ahhhh,” she breathes, flexing her foot. He jerks as her toes press against the strained fabric of his pants—and then he sees the wicked curve of her smile._

_“Hera!” he says explosively. His first instinct is to rise, loom over her, rest his hands on either side of her chair (“oh, so THAT’s how we’re playing it, are we”) but something makes him flinch back from that thought as soon as it’s formed. Instead he leans backward. “You—evil— _”_ _

_She laughs and pulls her foot back, lifting the other one in its place. “I’ll make it up to you, love,” she says. “But do the other foot, first.”_

He knows _—_ or he ought to know _—_ how fragile normal is. How precious ordinary can be.

But, for a time, he lets himself believe these moments will never be lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by Pornflakes:


	6. Out of Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a shocking turn of events, Kanan and Hera have sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thank-yous to [gondalsqueen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gondalsqueen/pseuds/gondalsqueen) for beta reading.

Kanan knows better than to make a fuss over Hera and Sabine’s close call on the asteroid base, but his relief is apparent in every line of his body. He’s loose-limbed, grinning—giddier than Hera can remember seeing him.

She thinks he must have enjoyed swooping in to the rescue. For all his reticence around displaying his abilities, Kanan seems most comfortable in his own skin when he gets to be the swashbuckling hero. Hera’s convinced it’s the role in life that he was always meant to play. They didn’t call them _knights_ for nothing.

Hera, on the other hand, does not enjoy being rescued. Well, it beats the alternative.

The whole ordeal has left a bad taste in her mind. Not because of the almost-dying part; that happens often enough that she takes it more or less in stride.

Partly it’s that Fulcrum’s intel _is_ getting worse. Between the extra security on the convoy and the extra…locals…at the pick-up site, it’s been a particularly dicey day. Hera can think of a few different things that might be going on, and some of them make her more nervous than others.

First, it could be that Fulcrum has lost one or more informants. That would suggest the Empire is dismantling their network faster than they can recruit and infiltrate—very bad news, if the trend continues.

Second, it’s possible that their activity has garnered enough notice that the Empire has stepped up security across the board. This would, perversely, be good news: it would mean that their offensive has been more effective than predicted.

Third, it could be that Fulcrum has started assigning the Ghost team to chancier missions. Either because they’re considered capable…or because they’re considered expendable.

But that last scenario isn’t possible. She could believe it if she were still operating alone, but Kanan and Ezra aren’t expendable assets by any sane reckoning. Fulcrum knows what Jedi can do very well: that’s probably exactly why the Spectres are being handed the riskiest missions.

And they’ll rise to the challenge. Hera sighs. No, it’s not the intelligence failures that are bothering her.

It’s her own failure. She didn’t manage Sabine well. Or maybe that’s the problem—she _managed_ Sabine, instead of answering any of her questions or giving her any of the assurance she sought.

But she didn’t have any other choice. She _has_ to make decisions based on what’s best for the mission—not what’s best for Hera’s friendship with Sabine. Not what will earn her trust.

_“Do you think you can trust me?”_

_“I think…I can try.”_

Hera shakes her head. _Smart cookie_ , she thinks. It’s exactly the same kind of poodoo answer that Hera herself has been foisting off on Sabine all this time. No real commitment whatsoever. Hera’s been handed a taste of her own medicine, and it’s bitter.

“Now who’s brooding?”

Kanan’s lounging in a hatchway. _Insouciant_ , that’s the word for how he looks, with his arms loosely folded and his hips off-center, one leg crossed behind the other. Hera’s immediately and unreasonably annoyed by the sense of self-satisfaction he’s projecting.

She cocks one hand on a hip, lifting the other to point a finger at him in mock accusation. “That one was closer than I like,” she says.

“I agree,” he says. And then he unfolds himself from the hatchway, taking a step towards her while a slow smile curves his lips: “Can I take your mind off it?”

Hera rolls her eyes. “And I suppose that’s the smirk that seduced the criminal scum of two dozen planets.”

“Some would call _you_ a criminal,” he points out. He’s very near her, now. She’s very much aware of how near he is. “So you tell me. Is it working?”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” she allows.

He gathers her into his arms, brushes his lips over her forehead. “You’re all right,” he says. It’s not a question—but it is.

“Yes,” she assures him.

“So.” He pulls back—still with that smug grin. “My bunk or yours?”

Hera lets out an impatient breath. “Yours,” she says. That way she can easily leave if she’s still as aggravated by his good mood, afterwards. It’s not that she doesn’t like to see him happy. It’s just—ugh.

Yet at the same time, she wants him terribly. Every nerve in her body is aware of him beside her, so…tall. So _male_. So Kanan.

She grabs his hand and pulls him along after her. No sense standing around in passageways. She punches open the hatch to his cabin and draws him in after her.

His smile has retreated to the corners of his mouth. His eyes on her are intent. Kanan’s not dense, quite the opposite—he can read her better than she’d like, sometimes. Unfair Jedi advantage.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, his voice pitched low enough that it awakens a shivery echo in the base of her spine.

She hesitates. Then: “Right now? No responsibility.”

He doesn’t question her, or the regret in her voice. “All right,” he says gravely.

One step closer, and he’s occupying her whole field of vision. He unsnaps her pilot’s cap, draws it off her head, and kisses the skin he’s just bared. Then he moves down to her flight suit. Unhurried and thorough, he addresses each button and buckle, kissing and caressing her as he strips her clothing away. She shivers, and not from the cold.

When she pulls at his own clothing, he stops to give her access—helping with the straps of his armor and blaster holster. But he’s intent on her the whole time. Once he’s finished undressing her, he slides his hands around her waist and pauses just a second, eyebrow lifting: she doesn’t understand what he’s asking until he pushes her back to the bunk.

He doesn’t follow her there. Instead, he sinks down before her, his hands falling on her knees and guiding them apart. Hera makes a helpless little noise of anticipation and immediately regrets it, because the blasted _smirk_ is back.

But then she can’t see his face, and everything is suddenly very much better. She props her hands on the bunk behind her and closes her eyes. Kanan is very deliberately teasing her—licking shallowly, his tongue slowly circling inward only to flick away. She sighs and abandons herself to the building heat.

It spills over her in waves, the crest higher each time: and she’s shuddering, whimpering, her back arched and her head thrown back, hips twitching. He could _give_ her what she needs but he’s not, he’s keeping her here on the edge—“Kanan,” she gasps, and then another wave of sweetness overwhelms her.

At last, at very long last, just when she thinks she can’t take any more—the crashing peak slams over her. She _screams_ with the intensity of it, her fists wound in the bedlinens, every muscle in her body taut and shaking. Finally she slumps back against the bunk, utterly wrung.

Kanan stretches out beside her, his body half-covering hers. After a few moments, when she’s opened her eyes again, he slides a hand up her inner thigh. “Can I—here—” he murmurs.

“Yes,” she says, and reaches to guide him. Her skin is slick and wet, and when he shifts to lie atop her, his cock slides easily between her thighs. She tightens her legs together as he begins to move. This way is much easier and quicker than taking him inside her, although there’s very little sensation in it for her—but when she’s already spent, it’s enough just to feel the weight of him against her, and to hold him as he takes his pleasure from the joining of their bodies.

And afterwards, as they’re lying together, she finds that she no longer resents his smile.

“Hera,” he says. “I’m glad you weren’t eaten.”

“Me too, dear.”

“How’s Sabine?”

“Also not eaten, so that’s another bright spot,” Hera says drily.

Kanan runs the back of his fingers down her arm. “And all her questions?”

Hera sighs. “They’re going to come up again.”

“At least we know where to get a flock of fyrnocks, if we need to distract her.”

“Next time it might take more than that.”

Kanan hums. “What if we let her blow something up? Something _big_.”

An idea sparks in the back of Hera’s mind. A set of stolen plans. The upcoming Empire Day celebrations. A new kind of TIE slated for mass-production on Lothal.

Here can’t give Sabine what she truly wants. Sometimes the demands of duty are unyielding. Sometimes responsibility is bitter. But she can do her best, within the confines of responsibility and duty, to show that she is listening, and she does care.

“I think maybe we can do that,” Hera says slowly. “I think…we can try.”


	7. Empire Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Hera blows Kanan in an alleyway. (Look, I never said you were getting Shakespearean sonnets, okay?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Infinite thanks to [gondalsqueen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gondalsqueen/pseuds/gondalsqueen) for beta reading.

_“The point is that you’re not alone. You’re connected to every living thing in the universe. But to discover that, you have to let your guard down. You have to be willing to attach to others.”_

The exercise didn’t go well. Kanan’s more disappointed than he should be, though he tries to hide it.

Thing is, this is the first lesson he’s tried to teach Ezra that’s not just a lecture parroted from his own childhood. In fact, what Kanan remembers from the Jedi Temple are a lot of serious talks about the _dangers_ of attachment.

But the galaxy is different now. Ezra lost the most important people in his world when he was a child, and grew up alone—nobody to care about him, nobody to trust. Kanan knows something about what that’s like. He knows how it can leave you frozen inside.

Kanan would have lived and died alone, if Hera hadn’t reached in and thawed him out. He wants better for Ezra. He wants—he _needs_ —to make Ezra feel the web of connection that embraces and sustains them all.

He just doesn’t know how.

Ezra runs off after they learn about the Rodian manhunt. Kanan’s left cooling his heels with the other Spectres—it’s still several hours till sunset, when the fancy new TIE model will be rolled out and their plan to cause a little havoc can commence. Sabine’s full of anticipation, practically jittering in her seat, so Kanan finally orders her and Zeb to do some recon around the square. He’s already got a few likely escape routes mapped out in his head, but it’ll give them something to do until the festivities start.

He and Hera settle back into the shadowy cantina, nursing their weak drinks.

“Something’s up with the kid,” Kanan says darkly.

Hera hums. “Whatever it is, he’ll open up when he’s ready.” She takes a sip of her Ebla beer. “I’m glad to see Sabine in high spirits.”

“You planned this whole mission as a gift to her,” Kanan points out.

“Well, it’s nice that she likes my present.”

Kanan kicks back, lifting his bottle. “This brings back memories,” he says.

“Really? Seems a little too clean for your type of place,” she laughs.

“Mmm, yeah, but look how everybody is studiously avoiding each other’s eyes. These people aren’t here for a good time with their friends. You’ve got the serious drinkers settling in for a long run; you’ve got us shady types passing information and contacts; and then—oh, that’s interesting.”

“What?”

“The Devaronian who just went to the head.”

“Why is that interesting?” she asks.

“Because none of the three people who went in before him have come out yet,” Kanan smirks. “I think we’ve got ourselves one of _those_ cantinas.”

“ _Those_ cantinas?” Hera echoes, raising a brow.

“Yeah. Where people go for a little quick stress-relief with some stranger they know they’ll never have to talk to again.” He shrugs. “That’s why nobody’s looking in each other’s faces.”

Hera shakes her head. “And you spent a lot of time in these types of bars, did you?”

“Sure. Comfortable kind of place, really. Quiet. Private. A nice spot to get your drinking done so long as you’ve got a strong bladder.” He takes another small sip of his beer. “Or if you don’t really plan on drinking.”

“It’s a wonder you didn’t die of some flesh-eating fungus years before I met you,” Hera says.

“Hey,” says Kanan. “I bathed.”

She makes a small noise of revulsion.

“What?” he says, arching an eyebrow. “You don’t see the appeal?”

“Not. At. All.”

He leans closer, pitching his voice lower. “Tell me, Hera. Have you ever done anything…just purely _debauched_?”

Her eyes sparkle. “Well, this one time,” she says, placing a finger on his chin, “I picked up a seedy roughneck from a mining planet and I brought him back to my ship.”

“And reformed him into a fine upstanding character,” Kanan says. “That doesn’t count.”

“I’m not sure I want to know what _your_ definition of debauchery is,” she says. But she’s smiling, teasing—her eyes are still bright and fond. He leans even closer, till his lips are nearly touching her cheek.

“Something you’d never tell another soul,” he murmurs. “Something secret and shameful that thrills you just to think about. And for the rest of your life, at all the most mundane moments—when you’re haggling over the price of fuel or waiting for directions in a flight control queue—you think to yourself, ‘what if they could see what I did that day?’ And you feel guilty and dirty but also, you smile, because you know there’s a piece of you the rest of the galaxy would never suspect.”

She turns her head, lifting her chin to whisper in his ear. Her voice is husky and deep, pitched for him alone, and he has to strain to catch the words: “I am not going into that bathroom with you.”

He laughs outright. She pulls back, smiling.

“But a back alley,” she says. “Maybe.”

He almost chokes on the Ebla beer. “What, _seriously_?”

She tilts her head and waves a hand. “You make a compelling argument.”

He sets the bottle down on the table and immediately slides out of the booth, holding his hand out to pull her up with him. “Don’t clear the drinks,” he tells the bartender. “We’ll be back.”

The side door leads into a narrow dead-end street, high whitewashed walls marked only by the occasional grated window or plain unwelcoming door. It’s barely wide enough for a speeder, but apparently this is where deliveries are dropped: crates are stacked haphazardly by the cantina’s exit. Bits of stray garbage have been blown into drifts against the walls, and a faint smell of beer and sickness lingers in the late-afternoon heat.

Kanan looks at Hera dubiously: “I think we can do better,” he says.

“Better?” she says with mock surprise. She moves in, backing him up until he hits the wall. “Now how could we possibly find a _better_ setting than this for something filthy and degrading?”

“You’re not wrong there,” he admits. There’s a stack of crates between them and the alley’s entrance, but they can hear the traffic of the street going by, and occasionally the clink of bottles or hum of voices within the cantina. “You sure?” he asks. “I mean, someone could come by at any moment.”

“I thought that was the point,” she says, and pulls at his belt. Her hands slide along his skin, caressing and tugging, and Kanan swallows a groan. He wraps his hands around her waist and pulls her tightly against him, leaning down to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss against her lek.

“Quiet,” she whispers, and drops to her knees.

Kanan closes his eyes, letting his head fall back against the wall behind him. He was already half-hard, and as soon as she takes him into her mouth he feels an aching tightness sweep over him. One of her hands (her _amazing_ hands) is wrapped around his shaft, while the other tugs at his balls.

He slits his eyes open just so he can see her: the woman he loves, bathed in the golden light of late afternoon, kneeling before him in a dirty alley with her mouth full of cock. It’s all kinds of wrong. It’s horribly, shamefully arousing. This time he doesn’t quite manage to stifle his moan.

And then another sound: on the other side of the stack of crates, the cantina door has opened again. Hera freezes. Kanan instinctively puts his hands on her head, guiding her as he swivels his body even though it means turning his back to whatever’s just walked out: if they walk around the crates they’re going to get a faceful of his ass, but he’ll be between them and Hera. He doesn’t mind being caught with his pants down. _Nobody_ gets to see her like this.

She draws back. He puts a finger to his lips, resting his other hand against the wall above her head.

“Baatu baatu bu chizk,” mutters someone on the other side of the crates. There’s a wet slopping sound—probably a bucket of something being thrown against the far wall. Then the footsteps retreat and the door closes again.

Hera giggles, low and throaty. And she reaches for him again.

The warm wetness of her mouth. Her hand gliding up and down his shaft even as she licks and sucks the tip of his cock. Gentle fingers scratching over his balls, cupping and tugging them. The _sounds_ —the wet, vulgar sounds of his cock sliding in and out of her mouth. Her little hums of satisfaction as she watches his control slip.

He comes abruptly, his whole body shaking with it, mouth opening in a strained gasp as he struggles to remain silent. She doesn’t relax her grip on him until the last eddies have faded.

“Hera,” he whispers as she stands. He reaches for her, sliding an arm around her waist. “Can I—do something for you?”

“ _Here_?” she says, and if her eyes weren’t dancing he’d think that was real scorn in her voice. “In _this_ place? What do you take me for, Kanan?”

“The most alluring woman in the galaxy,” he says.

She tosses her lekku. “Well. Next time you’re in some squalid den of iniquity, you can think of _me_ instead of your years of debauchery.”

He buckles up his pants. “You know,” he says, “you know a lot about what I was doing before I met you. But you never talk about the lovers you had before me.”

“Kanan,” she says, affectionate and wry. “I was eighteen when I met you. What makes you think there _was_ anyone before you?”

And then, at his stare of frozen horror, she laughs in his face.

“You can’t tell me that _now_!” he sputters. “Not after I’ve just…”

“Just _what_?”

“Just had you on your knees in a filthy alley!”

“Pretty sure _I_ had _you_ ,” she says archly.

“Oh, Force,” he breathes. Their first night together is seared into his memory, but now he’s examining it from a whole new point of view. “The first time we… Was I gentle enough? Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

“I did! I told you I’d never been with a man before.”

“A human!” Kanan protests. “You said you’d never been with a _human_!”

“Aaaaand that was also true,” she says. “Anyway, it’s almost time to rendezvous with Zeb and Sabine. Come on, dear. It’s your turn to make me some fireworks.”


	8. Gathering Forces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kanan and Hera, sittin' in a tree, except there's no tree and instead they have sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [gondalsqueen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gondalsqueen/pseuds/gondalsqueen) is the best beta reader.

“You made it!” Hera cries.

Kanan smiles down at her, at them all. “Was there any doubt?”

“Never,” she says, in a voice husky with relief. “Ezra, I have something to—”

But Kanan stops her with a light hand on her wrist. “Ezra needs a little time to himself right now.”

Hera turns to watch him go. The kid’s shoulders are hunched inward, his arms tucked tightly across his chest. He trudges across the common room in silence, and the hatchway closes behind him.

Kanan sighs. “We need to talk,” he says.

Hera nods. “My cabin, then. Chopper? Can you keep an eye on the cockpit?”

 _Wump wump_ , the astromech trundles.

“I’ve…got something I’m working on,” Sabine says. “But I’m around if you need me.”

“And I’m starving,” Zeb says. “I’ll be in the galley.”

“Thanks, you two,” Kanan says, and gets tired smiles in response. Then he follows Hera.

***

She pulls off her boots with a sigh and settles in on one side of her bunk, propping a pillow behind her. Kanan comes in a moment later and follows her lead, folding himself in at the other end of the bunk. His long legs stretch out beside her. She rests a companionable hand on his ankle.

Kanan takes a breath, then starts speaking. “Ezra called on the Dark Side today,” he says without preamble. “It was my fault. The Inquisitor overpowered me—he was vulnerable, and scared, and he lashed out. He didn’t know what he was doing.”

“So,” Hera says slowly, “why is that so bad? I mean, if it was an accident.”

“It puts him in danger. It puts us _all_ in danger,” Kanan says. “The Dark Side corrupts. It seduces. And when it takes over a Jedi—” His eyes narrow: he’s looking into the past. “They can be turned against everything they once stood for, everyone they once loved. It will eat you until nothing remains but hatred and anger and fear.”

She moves her thumb against the bare skin of his ankle, a small caress. “Sounds like you have some direct experience.”

“Not personally. When I was at the Temple there was a padawan who fell. She set off a bomb that killed Jedi, troopers, civilians…it was terrible. And she tried to blame it on another padawan who had once been her best friend. They were nearly executed before the truth came out.”

“All right,” Hera says. “I can see how that’s bad. How do we make sure it doesn’t happen to Ezra? —For that matter, how do you make sure it doesn’t happen to _you_?”

Kanan sighs. “There were tests. Many of them, in fact, from the time I was a youngling. All designed to strengthen our will and prove that we had the self-control to resist the Dark Side. Any who failed…weren’t trained any farther.” Kanan chooses not to mention that many of the tests had been rather more final: any who failed never returned.

“But those tests didn’t weed out that fallen padawan,” Hera points out.

“There’s no perfect solution,” Kanan says. “The Dark Side will always exist, and it will always be a temptation for those who seek a quick route to power or succumb to despair. I’m—certainly not immune. But I’ve never come close to drawing on it.”

“Why not?”

“Because when I call on the Force, I feel how it connects me to every other living being. To you, and the kids, and everyone. I don’t _want_ to break that connection by turning inward. No matter how angry or afraid I may be, there’s always a deeper peace." His fingers twitch. "I can let it flow through me. It’s not as flashy as the Dark Side, it doesn’t have the same kind of easy, immediate power. But ultimately it’s far stronger. ”

Lost in his own thoughts, he isn’t aware of Hera’s shining eyes, of the way she curls minutely towards him. Kanan’s far from infallible, she knows that very well—she’s seen him at his most graceless and inept. But there’s still a girlish part of her that’s awed by the Jedi.

“Isn’t that something you can teach Ezra?” she says.

“That’s just it, I’ve been _trying_. He’s blocked. I thought he’d made a breakthrough on that asteroid, and then—” Kanan shakes his head. “I think I made a mistake by skipping the tests.”

“I thought opening the holocron was his test,” Hera says.

“The first one, maybe,” Kanan says. “It’s time for something more serious. I have to know— _we_ have to know. If he’s strong enough to walk this path.”

“Well, love, it sounds like you know what you need to do.”

His face softens as he looks at her. He meant to ask her permission because he knows these trials can be dangerous, even fatal. But she’s placed her faith in him without question.

So he drops everything he’d planned to tell her about the risks, and says instead: “Also, I want a do-over.”

She catches the shift in his tone. Her lips curve in a wondering smile. “What do you mean?”

“For our first night,” Kanan says. “Because you never told me it was your _first_ first night.”

She scoffs. “Kanan. We’ve been together six years. I think it’s safe to say you’ve had hundreds of ‘do-overs.’”

“No,” he says genially, “those were nights two through two thousand. I want a second chance at the first one.”

“That makes…no sense.”

“Sure it does,” he says.

“It really doesn’t.”

He draws his legs back and leans forward, moving up to her side of the bunk. “Then I’ll explain it to you,” he says, and the deep intensity in his voice sends a thrill through her. She slides down as he moves over her. His hips press against hers. “That night,” he says huskily, “was like…landing after a turbulent flight through roiling atmosphere. Or coming home after a long and arduous trek. I had wanted you so much, for so long, I was just full of gratitude and relief.”

He props his weight on an elbow and slides the other arm beneath her shoulders. “And you seemed so confident,” he says. “I was trying to take my cues from you. It never occurred to me that you might not know exactly what you wanted.”

“I think you may have gotten the wrong idea, dear,” Hera says. “Just because I hadn’t truly had a lover before you doesn’t mean I was _entirely_ inexperienced. I read things on the HoloNet. I tried some of them out.”

He nuzzles at the collar of her shirt, kissing her bare skin where he can reach it. “Not the same,” he murmurs.

“Also I had a best friend when I was growing up. We…experimented, a bit.”

Kanan pulls back, a bright spark of interest of his eyes. “Oh, I want to hear about _that_ ,” he says. “In great detail, please.”

Hera waves a hand near his ear. “You know. Sleepover stuff.”

“Goooooo on.”

Hera sighs in mostly-feigned exasperation. “Her name was—is—Emony. She’s very pretty. We got our tattoos together, actually.”

As if reminded, Kanan moves his mouth to her tchin, kissing and lapping at the patterns there. Hera shudders, her eyes fluttering closed. “Go on,” Kanan says again, before returning to his kisses.

There’s a hitch in her voice now, but she says: “We called it ‘practice.’ We were practicing for—oh, don’t stop—for when we found our first lovers. Kissing pillows. You know. Sometimes kissing each other, just to…compare.”

“Compare what?” Kanan murmurs against her skin.

“Technique? I suppose?” Then she gasps, her hips bucking against his—he’s taken the end of her lek in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the tip.

After some time he says: “Just kissing, then?”

Hera makes an inarticulate noise and clutches at his clothing. But he only kisses her cheek and waits. Reluctantly, Hera opens her eyes. “Sometimes we’d lie on top of each other and pretend to be…thrusting.” Kanan’s eyebrow climbs. “But we always had all our clothes on!”

“So you don’t consider her your first lover because…?”

“Because it wasn’t _like_ that,” Hera says. “It was like she was…me. A me outside myself. I loved her, and we messed around, but there was no intent to have it mean anything more.”

“And the clothes never came off.”

“Not while we were doing that. And neither of us ever…” Hera waves a hand again.

“Came?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” Kanan says. “If you’re still in touch with Emony, I should send her a thank-you note. Your kissing technique is excellent.”

“I haven’t heard from her in a few years,” Hera says regretfully. “I can’t tell her much about what I’m doing, and the people she talks about don’t mean anything to me. Maybe if we were on the same planet, we could catch up. Make things like they used to be.”

“Can I be there?” Kanan says lasciviously. Hera smacks his shoulder.

He leans in for a kiss, soft and long. When he finally draws back, he says: “Here’s what I wish I could have told you that night: I am _yours_.” His voice is deep and rough. “You can touch me anywhere, you can ask me for anything. There is nothing you could possibly do or want that will offend or repulse me. Anything you want from me—anything you don’t want—just say the word. _Anything_.”

“Kanan. Love,” she says, and kisses him again.

At length he rolls off her, his free hand moving to the clasps of her clothing. She helps, pulling off each piece as he unhooks the closures. “Although,” she says thoughtfully, “it’s an awfully big galaxy. Like I said, I spent time reading about sex on the HoloNet—and I have _seen_ some things. Did you know Hutts consider it erotic to consume live animals?”

“I would swallow live frogs and like it,” Kanan says. “If you wanted me to.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Please don’t.”

He laughs. Together, they turn their attention from her clothing to his. Shoulder armor, shirts, belt, and pants are tossed aside. “Is there anything, though?” he asks. “Anything you’re curious about, in all that you’ve seen?”

She lays a hand on his cheek. “You are everything I want. You were then, and you are now.”

They lie pressed together, skin warm on skin. Their kisses are leisurely and explorative. “And you?” Hera says finally.

“Same.”

She teases his earlobe with her tongue. “Are you sure?” she says softly. “Nothing you’ve been missing?” Her hand sweeps down his chest, then slides lower. “Nothing you want to bring out of the five hover-ring circus that is your sexual history?”

“Oh, I’m not saying I won’t toss you a flaming hoop every now and then,” he says, the smile rich in his voice. “But I have _never_ liked anything so much as…”

“As what?”

“I’m trying to find a way to say this that sounds right,” he admits.

“Why, is it bad?”

“It’s not bad at all. It’s just—” He lowers his head, kissing at her breasts. “What I like more than anything else is watching you lose control.”

She doesn’t say anything, and after a moment he lifts his head. “Hera?” he says nervously.

“Mmm?”

“Are you mad?”

“What? No.” She pulls his ponytail loose, arranging the loose strands of hair as they sweep over his cheek. “I knew _that_ already, dear.”

He looses a breath. “Good, I was afraid you might think…I don’t know. That it was about…” He struggles again, and finally finishes: “something it’s not.”

Her fingers tangle in his hair. “I trust you,” she says.

“That’s what it’s about,” he says with relief. And then, as he returns to teasing her breasts: “That, and also how beautiful you are.”

She strokes his hair, arching her back under his attentions. His hand slides between her thighs and she moans. When she opens her eyes she sees him staring back at her, heavy-lidded, intent.

She strongly suspects there is something preternatural in his ability to _know_ exactly where to touch her, how hard, how long. Sometimes he keeps her dancing along the edge of release for what feels like an eternity.

At these moments she feels the focus of his will almost as clearly as she feels his fingers and tongue. This is a man who can make space and chance bend to his command. And when he sets his mind to _her_ and her alone—the force of his awareness has a physical power.

Tonight he’s not toying with her. Every touch is a little stronger, a little more direct, nudging her closer and closer to climax. When she comes it’s strong enough that her whole body curls, her cries stifled against his shoulder.

He holds her, strokes her, kisses the top of her head. After a few minutes she relaxes, and the sweep of his hands becomes more deliberate and insistent. She’s barely come back to herself before he’s reigniting the fire along her nerves, kindling waves of warmth that carry her away again.

It takes her longer this time, but he’s patient. She clings to him, nipping at what she can reach: a shoulder, an ear. When he travels down her body she clutches at the bedclothes instead.

“Talk to me, Hera,” Kanan says, and she’s so lost in sweetness that it takes her a moment to process human speech. Then she realizes he’s moved over her, cock pressing against her.

She rises up, twining her arms around him. “Yes,” she breathes, and he sinks into her—barely, tantalizingly shallow. “ _Yes_ ,” she says more strongly, and then gasps at the surge of sensation that follows.

He’s still. She runs her hands down the muscles of his back, feeling his control. “Kanan,” she whispers. “Say that again.”

His breath is hot on her cheek. “What?”

“That you’re mine.”

“Body and soul, Hera.” His eyes are blue-green and infinite. “I am yours.”

“More,” she says, and then breaks off in a cry as he sinks into her fully. She can’t—it’s too much—but it’s _everything_ —

Kanan grasps her hand, moves it between them. He lifts himself just a fraction so that she can slide her own fingers where they need to be. And then he’s moving inside her, and she presses…there…and _there_ …

And she throws her head back, all thought erased by the storm wracking over her body; it’s only when Kanan presses a hand over her mouth that she realizes she is _screaming_. He’s still thrusting into her, every movement of his body sparking a wave of response in hers. Gradually, the surges of intensity fade: she shudders in the aftermath, holding him tightly until he drives against her one last time and groans.

They lie twined together, sweaty and spent. Finally Hera pants: “That wasn’t a do-over.”

“No?”

“No,” she says firmly. “I wouldn’t give our first night up for _anything_.”

He turns his head, pressing a kiss into her forehead. And after a pause she adds: “But the two thousand and third was a pretty good night.”


	9. Path of the Jedi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hera needs to let off some steam, but she can't quite reach the valve. Kanan's got the tools she needs. It's pretty much exactly as dirty as it sounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All thanks to [gondalsqueen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gondalsqueen/pseuds/gondalsqueen) for beta reading.

Kanan’s different when he comes back to the Ghost. So is Ezra. There’s a quiet confidence shared by both, a new bond that Hera catches in the way they finish each other’s sentences and mirror each other’s stance.

She would be wholly pleased, except that she’s swallowing a secret that she knows would threaten Ezra’s new-found equilibrium. What Tseebo told her about the Bridgers: she’d meant to tell Ezra the moment he returned.

But then Kanan told her about the Dark Side, how it seduces and destroys. How he feared for Ezra, and for them all. He told her that Ezra needed to be tested. And then he made love to her, and left.

It’s only once they’re back, and she hears a little of what happened in that temple, that she realizes: they might have never come home. And Kanan knew that all along.

So now, she can’t bring herself to add even the smallest of pebbles to the burden they are balancing between them. (And this knowledge? Not small.)

Ezra spends most of every day locked away, working on his lightsaber. Hera gives him his pick of her extra tech—bits that had no immediate home aboard the Ghost, but that were too good to throw away. Kanan and Sabine give him pieces, too.

The rest of them keep to ordinary routines. Hera turns down a couple of mid-length runs: the Ghost has supplies and fuel to stretch things out for a few weeks, and she doesn’t want to shake things up right now.

Sabine is glad for the chance to work on her own projects. Zeb sleeps a lot. Kanan is almost maddeningly serene.

He doesn’t come to her.

That’s not…terribly unusual. Kanan generally lets her take the lead when it comes to intimacy. As far as she can tell, he’s always interested, so he leaves things in her hands most of the time.

But after a week—that’s a _little_ unusual.

After two, it definitely is.

She doesn’t know why she’s holding back. Except that it feels like the whole ship is holding its breath, and…she’s afraid.

Because she doesn’t know what the new equilibrium means. She doesn’t know how fragile it might be. Kanan told her vivid stories about the threat of the Dark Side, and he took it seriously enough to risk both Ezra’s life and his own. She doesn’t know if the danger is ended now; she has a horrible feeling that it’s not.

The Ghost has always been her refuge and her home. Now she’s walking on tiptoes through her own ship.

To keep herself occupied during the long days, Hera sets to tracking down every stray rattle and clank aboard the ship, and attending to whatever needs to be tightened, oiled, or fixed.

So she’s got the access hatch open in the passageway over the cargo bay and she’s leaning into a warren of pipes, struggling to reach a stuck valve. She can’t quite get the leverage she needs. She makes a noise of frustration and throws one of her legs over the largest of the pipes, leaning in as far as she can.

And then the air circulators flush, and she not only hears but _feels_ the source of the rattle that drew her in the first place. The pipe under her is shaking violently. She’s definitely got to loosen that valve.

The shaking, though—her body vibrates with it, not unpleasantly. Not unpleasantly at all.

Hera bites her lip and tries to ignore the warmth kindling between her legs. She’s definitely wound tight if a rattling _pipe_ is setting her off. If she wasn’t so worried about Kanan—

—and really, why is she worried? He’s home safe. He’s calm and steady and fine. (And he hasn’t come to her in two weeks.)

Oh, but thinking about Kanan doesn’t help at all. Because the warmth and the pressure between her legs—she can almost imagine it’s his fingers massaging her. Hera whimpers and then casts a guilty look around. Nobody’s here.

Maybe if she just…eases into it…she can let this happen, and nobody will know, and she’ll be less jittery afterwards. Hera sighs and settles more firmly against the vibrating pipe. She lets her eyes close. She lets herself imagine that it’s Kanan’s leg she’s pressing against. His lean, hard body supporting her. She can picture him perfectly: amber skin dusted with freckles, seaglass eyes intent on her alone, the twist of a smile on his lips.

Hera grinds shamelessly against the metal. She can almost feel Kanan’s large, work-roughened hands running over her skin—the leather of his gloves and his calloused fingertips—the heat of his mouth on hers.

“Hera,” he says huskily, and it takes her a moment to realize he’s _actually_ there, in the passageway behind her. She freezes, her heart hammering. How compromising is this position?

“I,” she says through dry lips, “I can’t quite reach this valve.”

“Let me help,” he says. And then his arms slide around her, his chest pressing against her back, and he’s nuzzling and licking at her tchin, and—

“How long have you been standing there?” Hera sighs, even as she tilts her head to give him better access.

“I just got here,” he says. “You called me pretty clearly.” His voice is full of affection.

“Oh,” she says. And then he’s palming both of her lekku, and it’s just like she imagined only so much better (the leather of his gloves, the soft scrape of his fingertips)—and the steady rumble of the shaking pipe makes the heat inside her build and spread.

Kanan draws her lekku in front of her shoulders, so he can continue teasing the tips while his arms are folded around her. His lips move deliberately over her back of her tchin. He’s holding her against his broad, strong chest—he’s here, he’s all right, everything must be all right. Hera lets herself go with a low moan, her body shaking as a flood of sweet relief sweeps over her.

He kisses her cheek. “I’ve missed you,” he says softly.

Hera shifts, and Kanan moves back so she can wriggle out of the access hatch. She’s still holding her wrench, but she hooks her other arm around his waist and leans into him. “I’ve been pretty tense,” she admits.

“What’s going on?”

She catches a breath, then looses it. “If you don’t tell me when you’re going into danger,” she says at last, “then I don’t know when you’re safe.”

“Ah.” His arms tighten around her. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“And now I can’t _stop_ worrying.”

He runs a hand down her back, steady, reassuring. She rests her head against his chest and takes a deep breath. Kanan smells of machinery and power coils; the herbal oil he sometimes combs into his beard; the leather of his boots and gloves; and, faintly, of sweat. She likes all of those scents. “Are we all right now?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says: one word, but it’s filled with warmth and caring.

Hera takes a last deep breath, then pulls back. “In that case,” she says, offering him the wrench: “do you think you can adjust that valve? The pipes are, um, rattling.”

He takes the wrench with a sly smile. “I think I can do that,” he says. “Whenever you like.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with illustrations by Pornflakes!
> 
>  
> 
>  


	10. Idiot's Array

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because you can't have make-up sex without a fight. Content warning for talk of trafficking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter owes even more than usual to my beta reader, [gondalsqueen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gondalsqueen/pseuds/gondalsqueen).

“So that it?” Kanan says angrily. “We just walk away without the creds?”

Hera tries very, very hard to keep her voice neutral and friendly as she says: “Well, we got Chopper back.”

“I’m looking for a positive here.” It’s a joke that might actually be funny if he had any right to be _making_ jokes right now.

“There are a lot of things we couldn’t accomplish without him,” Hera says patiently. (So patiently. There is nothing at all dangerous in her calm, even tones.) “You should appreciate that more.”

Then Chopper draws their attention to the stolen fuel. Even Kanan smiles a bit. Amid the general celebration, Hera hears him mutter: “Anyone that fools Lando is okay with me.”

She’ll need to check in with Chopper later. But Kanan has to be her first priority. Never mind that he has _no right_ to be sulking: he’s doing it anyway, and if she lets him fall any deeper into this funk then who knows when he’ll come out again.

She follows him up the ladder and into the ship. Waits until they’re alone in a passageway before she says: “Kanan. Let’s talk.”

“It’s fine, Hera,” he grinds out. “Everything worked out.”

“You’re angry at me.”

“No,” he says, and scowls: because it’s a lie and he knows that she can hear it. “Not at you,” he amends, but that rings false too.

She cocks a skeptical eyebrow. “You’re…not jealous of Lando, are you?”

“No,” he says, and at least she can hear _that’s_ the flat truth.

“Then what is it?” she asks. (So patiently.)

He looks away, the scowl deepening. “I’ve been angry ever since I had to walk off that ship and leave you there,” he says at last.

Hera throws up her hands. “What was the alternative? Fighting everybody on board?”

His eyes snap back to hers, challenging and bright. “You think I wouldn’t?”

“I know that you would,” she says, placating. “I also know that my way—“

“Lando’s way,” he grumbles, but she goes on as if she hadn’t heard.

“—was a much better alternative.”

“It was your call to make,” he says. “I obeyed. I don’t have to be happy about it.”

And suddenly Hera realizes: she doesn’t give a rotten jogan if he’s angry, because this whole time she’s been pushing down her own fury, and she’s _done._

“No,” she says, lifting a finger. “You do _not_ get to do this. You do not to get to consider yourself the aggrieved party here when everything that happened was _your fault_. I did what I had to do to get us out of that mess, and if your toes got stepped on along the way, then— **suck it up,** skippy!”

“My fault?” Kanan snaps. “How about you spread some of that blame around to Lando? _I_ wasn’t the one who pushed you at Azmorigan!”

Their raised voices are echoing in the passageway. Hera advances on Kanan, jabbing her finger at him like a weapon. “No, you were the one who put a _crew member_ on the line as a wager in a _bet_! You treated Chopper like a thing to be traded away, and now you think you can get all righteous because Lando did the same thing to me?”

Kanan gives way before her, until his back hits up against the door to his quarters. A note of uncertainty enters his voice: “I thought it was a sure bet. I never would have—“

Hera bashes a fist on the controls, and the door slides open: Kanan stumbles backwards, and she follows him into the cabin. “Lando thought he had a winning bet too, when he offered me to Azmorigan. Oh!” she says, with mock surprise, as if she’d just remembered a salient point. “And he was actually right.”

“That’s—Chopper’s—he’s not an ordinary droid, sure. But he’s not _you_ ,” Kanan sputters.

“How about the fact that he wasn’t yours to bet? He’s mine.” Her voice is still sharp, but at least the door has closed behind them. Not everyone on the Ghost needs to hear this. “Or do you think that you own _me,_ so you must own everything I have?”

Kanan recoils as if she’d slapped him. Then his brows lower thunderously. “That’s **not** fair!”

“Nothing about this is fair!” Hera spits. She advances on him again. “Is it _fair_ that no matter what I’m wearing and who I’m with, the rest of the galaxy assumes I’m a slave following my master?” Kanan’s still backing up, but in the small cabin he doesn’t have far to go. When his back is up against his bunk she jabs her finger into his chest. “Is it fair that everyone thinks I can’t possibly own property because I _am_ property? Is it, is it _fair_ that you’re standing here angry at **me** just—just because I’m used to this and I don’t, don’t break down when it happens and so I have to come around and soothe _your_ out-outraged feelings…” She’s forcing the words out through hiccups, because she’s still so furious and he deserves every word of this dressing-down, and she’s not going to let a little thing like whatever her face is doing stop her from having her say.

Kanan looks as if someone shot him in the gut.

“Hera,” he whispers. Then he catches her hand, folding her accusatory finger down and wrapping his own fist tightly around her gloved fingers. His other arm slides around her waist, drawing her in. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”

She hiccups into his chest. “It’s fine, I’m perfectly fine, I just can’t deal with _you_ on, on top of everything else.”

“No. You shouldn’t have to.” His thumb sweeps over her knuckles; she can barely feel it through her glove, but his intent is to give comfort and she feels _that_ acutely. She relaxes into him just a fraction, and then he looses her fingers and raises his hand to her chin.

She lets him lift her face. He brushes his thumb over her cheeks—first one, then the other—and then he kisses her. “I’m not angry at you, Hera.” This time it’s the truth. “Tell me what I can do to help.”

She leans into him, and thinks about it. “Apologize to Chop,” she says. “A _real_ apology.” That will go a long way towards making things function smoothly on her ship again.

“I will. I promise I will.”

The hiccups are gone and her anger is draining away too. She draws off her glove and tugs at his jacket until she can slide a hand under it, wanting to feel the simple assurance of his skin against hers. His grip around her waist tightens and his other arm settles around her shoulders.

“I know why you were upset,” she says finally, by way of a peace offering. “I asked you to do something that went against your whole nature. It must have felt terrible.”

“You can handle yourself. I know that. We do dangerous things together all the time. It’s just—” He breaks off, sighing. “I don’t know. That one threw me.”

 _Because you’re a Jedi_ , she thinks. _Because you were trained from birth to be a guardian and a protector_. _Because no matter what you think of yourself, you aren’t and never were the type to walk away._

But what she says instead is: “Because it felt like a betrayal of who you are—who _we_ are. We don’t leave each other behind.”

“Yeah,” he says at last.

“But sometimes we have to do things we don’t like.”

“If it was _your_ plan, that would have been different,” Kanan says. “If we’d gone in prepared—talked out the contingencies, had a fall-back…”

“I had a fall-back plan,” Hera says, running her hand down his chest. “You. I knew if anything went wrong, you’d cross the galaxy to find me.”

“Hera,” he murmurs against the top of her head. “If I lost you…”

“That was never in the cards,” she says firmly. “No matter how lousy you are at sabacc.”

He snorts. She lifts her chin again, rising up on her toes to kiss him. He bends to meet her. This time their kiss is long and slow.

“Will you stay?” he asks at last. His voice is deep and rough.

In answer, she slides a hand around the back of his neck and tugs his ponytail free. His hair falls loose around his face and the corner of his mouth lifts in a crooked smile.

They undress each other slowly, carefully, as if tender of injuries that never were physical. Each newly bared stretch of skin is kissed and caressed. They press themselves against each other to staunch the wounds.

Hera lowers herself to the bunk and pulls him in after her. His weight settles over her, familiar and exhilarating. His mouth on hers is more urgent now, but after a time he pulls back. His fingers trace over the skin of her cheek. Then the heat of his mouth travels down her neck and over her breasts, leaving a sweet ache behind.

She scratches her fingers down his back, surges up against him, goads him on. She tangles her fingers in his hair and then, when she has had enough of his teasing, she pushes at him, twisting their bodies until she has him beneath her.

He looks up at her, heavy-lidded, his hair spread out on the pillow. She straddles him and places her palms against his chest. Her cunt rubs against his erection and he swallows hard as she begins to move.

His hands lightly rest on her hips. When she leans forward he slides them up to palm her breasts. Her lekku fall over her shoulders, the tips grazing against his chest.

She’s breathing fast, rocking against him now in a harder, faster rhythm. His hips twitch to match her motion. She rakes a hand down his chest and rolls his nipple between her fingers. “ _Hera_ ,” he groans, and bucks beneath her.

She draws herself up, arching her body and tossing her lekku back, and moves her hips in little circles. The angle’s not quite perfect for her but it’s close enough to send shivery little spikes of sensation through her. And she can watch him come undone beneath her, bit by bit.

He grasps her hips again, this time pulling her firmly down, his cock rubbing insistently against her. “Hera,” he gasps again. “I’m going to—“

“Yes,” she says, and slides back just enough to wrap her hand around him and give him the quick, strong pace he needs. His back arches and his fingers clench on her thighs as he spills over.

She slides off, stretching herself along his side. After a moment he leans out of the bunk to grab a clean rag from a drawer. A quick swipe—then he tosses it aside and turns to her.

“I love you,” he whispers, gathering her into his arms. She lets him guide her until she’s settled where he wants her: her back pressed against his chest, with his hands free to wander over her body. She closes her eyes as he begins to stroke her.

He knows her so well. And despite the hardbitten, devil-may-care façade he likes to adopt, he’s intensely empathetic. Hera begins to feel a nagging sense of remorse: he’s right, she wasn’t fair to him. He went eight years refusing to let anyone care about him because he feared losing them so much. It must have cost him a great deal to walk off that ship.

But he’s kissing the back of her lek, caressing her breasts and belly, and the rising heat pushes her thoughts away. She lets herself surrender under his hands. He touches her lovingly and knowingly, coaxing forth waves of pleasure that wash over her skin, and the crest builds and builds until it sweeps her away.

When she’s come back to herself she says: “I’m sorry too. What I said—I know you don’t think that way.” In fact, Kanan might be one of the only humans who _didn’t_ grow up seeing Twi’lek women marketed everywhere as enjoyable pieces of decoration and status-enhancing possessions. The Jedi treated all species equally and raised and trained them together. She has never, not even once, caught Kanan looking at her as _a sexy Twi’lek_ rather than as a woman he happens to find inordinately attractive. The distinction may be hard to define but she knows it in her bones. It’s one of the reasons she trusted him enough to bring him aboard the Ghost in the first place.

“No, don’t,” he protests, running a gentle hand up and down her arm. “Don’t—worry about me.”

She twists around so she can look him in the eyes. “I love you, Kanan Jarrus,” she says gravely.

“Even when I’m an idiot? Because that covers a lot of the time.”

“Always,” she says. “Always.”


	11. Vision of Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's an idea, how about _you_ write the chapter summary, and if you wrote "Kanan and Hera have sex" then give yourself a gold star.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [gondalsqueen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gondalsqueen/pseuds/gondalsqueen) for beta reading.

Blaster bolts echo down the sewer passage. Kanan’s on one side with Zeb and Sabine; Hera, Ezra and the Senator are on the opposite side of the intersection, cut off. Hera throws him an urgent glance: _What’s the plan, Spectre One?_

“We’ll draw them away!” Kanan shouts. “Get Spectre Two and Trayvis to the hatch!”

And that’s when Hera understands—he’s not talking to her. He’s talking to his padawan.

Ezra, of course, doesn’t catch the significance. He’s just trying to look cool in front of Sabine. “Think of something clever to say later!” Hera urges. “Move!”

And she only allows herself a few moments of pride as they run through the sewers. She doesn’t know what a bond between a Jedi and padawan is supposed to be, but she knows that this feels right. Kanan just entrusted Ezra with _her_ safety: that’s huge, even if neither of them realize it.

Unfortunately, everything else about the situation feels very wrong.

When Trayvis starts pumping them for information, Hera does what needs to be done. Her heart breaks for Ezra, but he needs to see this.

“Put your saber down, boy. Now!” Trayvis snaps. Hera just watches as Ezra obeys. _It’s a lightsaber_ , she thinks. _It activates **at the speed of light**. _ Blaster bolts are fast, but even ionized plasma suffers air drag _. Ezra, he only has power over you because you’re allowing it._

It’s just as well, though, because she needs to know: “All your transmissions. Those planets you visited. How did word not get out about you?”

And then she bites her tongue as Ezra puts the pieces together. This isn’t the time. She _can’t_ tell him what she knows.

She keeps quiet. And she hates this man Trayvis about as much as she has ever hated anyone.

“Your parents were very brave,” Trayvis gloats. “And very foolish. Where are they now? I’ll tell you, my boy. They’re gone!”

And at that, Hera breaks. Maybe she could have gotten more out of him. But Ezra is suffering beside her and she can’t allow it. “They’re not gone, Trayvis!” she snaps. _You nerf-head. I’m standing right here._ “As long as **we** fight, all that they spoke out for lives on.”

Punching Trayvis is less satisfying than she expected.

But the moment when Kanan, Zeb, and Sabine show up? Every bit as satisfying as she could have hoped. “What’s our plan?” Kanan asks.

She tells him what she needs. He does something impossibly heroic and makes it happen. Ezra stands guard and deflects all the shots that would have cut him down. She loves them in that moment—she loves them all, more than she could ever say.

Hera wishes she could adopt every needy orphan she comes across in her journeys. She can’t. Those times when she’s forced to walk away while her heart bleeds, all she can do is remind herself that she’s fighting for them all. If she succeeds, she’ll make the whole galaxy better.

But sometimes—sometimes compassion and pragmatism follow the same star. Sometimes she can love _and_ trust.

Sometimes the stray child she wants to keep is the one who will learn to stand with a blazing sword.

They’re all tired by the time they trudge back to the Ghost. Kanan offers a few words of support, then climbs to his bunk. Hera is the one who sits with Ezra, watching the stars, and lends him what hope she can.

She assumes the others have gone to sleep by the time she makes her weary way back her own cabin. But Kanan’s door slides open as she passes it.

He’s dressed for sleep, wearing only a pair of soft, low-slung pants. His hair hangs loose around his face. He props an arm against the doorframe and gives her a slow, sly smile as her eyes travel up and down.

“Mm, all right,” Hera says, in answer to the question he has not asked. She holds out her hand and lets him draw her inside.

When he kisses her it’s surprisingly fierce. His mouth on hers is hard and possessive. _What’s going on with you, Kanan?_ she thinks.

But what she says—after he’s drawn back, his unhurried fingers traveling over her flight suit, is: “I was proud of Ezra today. I think he’s handling the Trayvis thing as well as possible, really.”

“It’s good that we exposed the Senator,” Kanan says grimly.

“I’m…hearing a but?”

Her clothing falls away, and Kanan pulls her tightly against him. “ _But_ that ISB agent has seen all of us, now,” he says; and then his mouth claims hers once more.

Ah. Yes, she remembers the way Kallus had leered: _And what have we here? A Twi’lek I’ve yet to meet_. And the way his eyes had moved over her body when he said: _From your regalia, I suspect you must be our talented pilot._ Kanan wouldn’t have liked that at all.

She didn’t like it either, and she’s more than happy to let Kanan erase the memory with the heat of his kisses and the sweep of his hands on her skin. She moves where he guides her, until her back is against the bulkhead and his tall, muscled body is between her and the world. He rests one arm on the wall beside her, the other hooked around her waist as his mouth works hungrily on her neck and shoulder.

Her soft sigh becomes a moan when Kanan’s hand slides up to cup her breast. He presses against her more firmly, nudging her legs apart with his knee. She yields and then cries out again when his thigh grinds against her cunt.

He doesn’t relent. His hips push against hers again and again in a lewd, insistent rhythm that leaves her gasping and clutching at his shoulders. He’s practically fucking her right up against the wall. Then he clamps her nipple between his fingers and drives his tongue into her mouth, and Hera loses any ability to form coherent thoughts. Her world is nothing but pleasure and desire and the pressure of his body. The hot pulse inside her becomes _need_ , a building, driving need that grows so strong it seems unendurable, and then—

—then, she is shaking and crying out helplessly, and Kanan is holding her up because otherwise she would have slid bonelessly to the floor.

He barely gives her time to remember how to stand on her own feet before he’s kissing her again—more gently now, at least at first. His left arm is wrapped around her but his other hand begins to wander. He caresses the curve of her hip, slowly and tenderly, and then slides his hand between her legs. “Kanan,” she sighs, as his fingers push inside her.

She runs her hands over his back, feeling the tautness of his muscles as he’s holding her, tracing old scars. He turns his head to drop kisses down her tchin; she nips at the skin beneath his ear and jaw. The gentle, easy movement of his hand between her legs grows more insistent. Hera begins to whimper as the eddies of pleasure throughout her body turn once more into a rising tide.

She tugs at the drawstring of his pants, letting them slide off his hips and to the floor. Kanan’s breath teases her earcone as he says: “Tell me what you want.”

“You, love,” Hera says, and reaches for him.

He moves his hand and she is empty for a moment, but then he grasps her hips and hefts her up. Half her weight is leveraged against the bulkhead and the other half is borne up by him, and his cock is pressing against her.

At her urging he sinks into her inch by inch. When she finally takes him fully she feels a shudder pass over him. He pulls out slowly only to drive into her again, and again, and each time she cries out with the intensity of the sensation. She wraps her legs around his waist and throws her head back against the bulkhead. He kisses her neck and fucks her with long, slow strokes.

“Kanan,” she says shakily, “I can’t—I need—”

He dips his head and catches the tip of her tchun in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the tip and then sucking strongly. Hera jerks, back arching, but his grip on her is firm. Her sharp cries echo through the cabin. Usually when she gets loud she’ll grab a pillow to muffle it, or he’ll help with a palm over her mouth, but now there’s nothing she can do to hold it back. Finally she bites his shoulder just to keep from screaming. And then he shifts her weight, finding a deeper angle, and she _is_ screaming: she could no more help it than she could stop the spasms of pleasure wracking her body.

A last few sharp thrusts, and Kanan gives a low groan, his body shaking. Hera gradually catches her breath and manages to open her eyes. She’s got a fistful of his hair wound through her fingers, so tightly that it must be painful: she immediately looses her grip.

“Sorry,” she says huskily.

He sets her down, careful that she’s steady on her feet before he releases her fully. She touches his shoulder: the imprint of her bite is clear, though at least she didn’t break the skin. “Sorry,” she says again, wincing.

He looks down at her with pleasure-darkened eyes. “Don’t be,” he says. “I liked it.”

“I hope the sound-proofing in here is decent,” she sighs.

There’s only a trace of smugness in his smile. “If the kids ask, we’ll tell them we were watching a monster holo.” He leans in to brush a kiss against her cheek. “Are you staying?”

“No,” she says. “There’s a few things I want to look over before I sleep.” She smooths her hand over his hair, then pulls away.

There will be a lot of things in her head when she finally hits her bunk. Trayvis, Kallus, the Bridgers—and the problem of how to inspire hope in a galaxy where it’s become increasingly scarce. But amid all her worries, there’s one place of confidence and security. Her family is safe. They are thriving, even.

Hera will sleep soundly, and her dreams will be fond.

EPILOGUE:

“Oh for blast’s sake, Kanan,” Zeb mutters as he tosses on the bottom bunk. “Some of us are trying to sleep.”

Which confuses Ezra, because the cries don’t sound like Kanan at all to him: he’d assumed Hera or Sabine was having a nightmare. He reaches out for his master through the Force and finds himself emphatically blocked.

Well, whoever it is would probably only be embarrassed if they knew they’d woken everybody up. Ezra pulls a pillow over his head and rolls over.


	12. Call to Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kanan and Hera have sex and everything is happy forever. (One of these statements is a lie.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to [gondalsqueen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gondalsqueen/pseuds/gondalsqueen) for beta reading.

_If he’d known it was the last time, maybe he would have—_

_Taken more time? But those stolen moments were so sweet._

Hera finds him brewing caf in the galley. She pulls off her gloves and slides her hands around him, under his shirt. He pauses what he’s doing just to bask in her touch. Then her hand dips lower, and he half-turns, cocking an eyebrow at her. “Aren’t the others awake yet?” he says softly.

“Just Chopper,” Hera says, “and I don’t think he’ll tell on us.”

Kanan sets down the caf and takes her in his arms. Sometimes his whole body thrills to have her near, but other times—now—touching her feels more like relief. As if he can finally loose a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“I’ve been thinking more about Trayvis,” he says.

Her fingers sweep over his chest. “Mmm?”

“Of course it’s good that he won’t trap anyone else. But…that scheme only worked because people were so desperate to hear someone speaking out. And now…”

“Now they’ll lose that,” Hera finishes. “I was talking to Ezra the other night about hope. I think folks out there are starving for it as much as they’re starving for… Well. Food.”

Her hand has paused, so he leans down to nuzzle the side of her head. Her sharp intake of breath as his lips pass over her tattoos kindles an answering spark in him. “Maybe we should do something like he did,” he says. “Only, we’d be telling the truth.”

“It’s risky,” she says slowly. “But I think it might be worth it. _Could_ we pull off a broadcast like that?”

“Let me spend some time thinking through the details,” Kanan says.

She looks up at him with shining eyes. Yep, that look on her face is why he’s here, living on the run and risking his life on a daily basis: the hero gig doesn’t pay too good, but Hera’s affection and admiration is worth the galaxy to him.

Also he’s making a difference in people’s lives and he doesn’t hate himself anymore, so there’s that.

_If he’d known it was the last time, maybe he would have—_

_Told her what she means to him? But she knows all that._

He leans down to kiss her. He’s actually come to associate that slight crick in his neck with very good things: the other day he was hunched over some schematics until his neck started to hurt, and it took him several minutes to figure out why he suddenly felt unreasonably happy. “Hera,” he sighs against the corner of her mouth, tracing the line of her chin with his fingers.

She smooths her hands across his back, then impudently lower, squeezing his ass. He pulls her more tightly against him and lets his mouth drift across her cheek, seeking the sensitive skin beneath her jaw.

“Hold on,” she says, her voice husky. She steps back and keys the door to the galley closed, then punches in the override that will keep the hatchway locked. Then she puts her back to the door, hands tucked behind her and one foot propped up, and gives him the sweetest and most provocative smile.

So he goes to her, sliding a palm behind her neck and cupping the back of her pilot’s cap with the other, and kisses her slowly and thoroughly. She winds her arms around his neck, playing with the ends of his ponytail.

At length Kanan moves his hands, tracing the curves of her head under its cap, then finding her lekku and skimming his fingertips along their length. They shiver beneath his touch, and Hera makes a helpless little noise of pleasure. Hearing it sends a thrill through him in response.

He could spend a very long time just kissing and teasing her, but they both know the galley won’t be a private place much longer. Hera’s hands rake down his body, then one slips beneath his belt. His hips twitch involuntarily as her fingers wrap around him.

_If he’d known it was the last time, maybe he would have—_

_Tried to make it special, somehow? Aerial acrobatics, high-tech props, a cast of costumed extras? She didn’t want that._

They both know the steps of this dance very well. There are variations, but also themes and patterns. Perhaps after six years there’s little novelty to their romance, but what they have instead is intimacy and trust. When Hera pushes at him, Kanan knows what she has in mind. He lets her back him up until he’s leaning against the galley counter, and then he yields as she unfastens his belt.

He’d told her once: You can touch me anywhere, you can ask me for anything. If she sees him brewing caf in the morning and it strikes her that she’d like to have him disheveled and gasping right there in the galley, then he’s certainly not going to argue.

His eyes close as she strokes him, her nimble fingers finding _just_ the right places. Her rhythm is quick and strong, and he’s very soon at the brink. He slits his eyes just to see her, pressed along his side, her graceful little hand wrapped around his cock…

…And that’s it, he’s groaning her name, his body shaking with release, and _she’s_ smiling like the loth-cat that swallowed the nightbird.

And there’s a bit of a mess to clean up, but that’s one lucky thing about the galley: the cleaning supplies are right there. After, he reaches for her again.

He knows her very well by now. And besides, he’s so attuned to her that he feels her responses almost as clearly as his own. He kisses her— _there_ and _there_ —strokes her lekku, flicks a thumb over the tips like _so_ —and when she rocks against him, whimpering, he slides a hand between her legs. _There_. No need to pull off the flight suit, he can make the folds of fabric work in his favor.

He likes it when she clings to him. He loves watching her shiver and moan. More than he could ever say, he cherishes the moment when she finds release in his arms, her back arched and her fingers clutching him and her face transformed by ecstasy. He pulls her against him, cradles her until she comes back to herself.

“Hey,” she says at last, her voice heavy with satisfaction. “Is the caf ready yet?”

_If he’d known it was the last time—_

_He wouldn’t have done anything differently._


	13. Rebel Resolve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for torture.
> 
> I'M SORRY, okay? We all knew this was coming but I'M SORRY. It's not my fault. 
> 
> I'm so sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [gondalsqueen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gondalsqueen/pseuds/gondalsqueen) said it would be okay. Blame her. (Don't blame her.)

Alone in a cell, locked into an interrogation board, Kanan wonders how long it will take him to die.

He should have had the presence of mind to get killed rather than captured. But he was focused solely on buying time for the others, and every moment they spent putting him into restraints was a moment the Phantom got a little bit farther away.

And then he got to hear Ezra’s transmission. He’s played it over and over in his memory since. How long has it been? He thinks at least a day, but he has no real idea. They’re keeping him in isolation, no food or water, in order to soften him up before the torture starts. And it won’t end until…how long will it take him to die?

The transmission. Yes. The words were good, the mission was a success—but that’s not the point. The point is that Ezra is safe.

 _Thank you, Hera._ It must have hurt her, flying away and leaving him behind, but there was no other option. They’ve never discussed it because they don’t have to: if it’s ever a choice between one of them and Ezra or Sabine, then it’s no choice at all. Protecting the kids is their top priority. He did what he had to do, and so did she.

He’s sorry that his death will hurt her. But she’ll have Sabine and Ezra to live for, and Chopper and Zeb to lean on. They’ll keep fighting. He hopes that Ezra will understand, some day.

Just as he finally understands Depa Billaba. She, too, made the only choice she could.

The door opens. It’s Kallus and Governor Tarkin. “Now we will discover,” Tarkin says, every word crisp and sinister, “if you are indeed the Jedi you claim to be.”

“Well, Governor,” Kanan says, “somebody’s gotta keep you entertained.”

And he wonders how long it will take him to die.

***

Hera weaves through the fire from the walkers, lifting the Spectres to the safety of the upper atmosphere. “How’d it go?”

“It didn’t,” says Ezra, and there’s nothing more to be said.

When they’re back on the Ghost, Hera goes straight to her cabin. Locks the door. And uses a transmission code she was given in case of truly dire emergency.

Fulcrum answers right away. “What is it, Hera?”

“I need something from you,” Hera says. “All our leads are coming up empty. I need _anything_ you can give me that will help us find Kanan.”

There’s a long pause. “That’s not what this transmission channel is for,” Fulcrum says at last.

Hera keeps her voice very steady, very reasonable. “Fulcrum. If I have earned any consideration from you—if what my team has given you has ever been valuable—if I have _any_ favors to call in, then I’m doing it now. I— _we_ —need this.”

“Kanan knew the risks, accepted them,” Fulcrum says. “I’m sorry, but you must focus on your next objective.”

Her control slips. Desperation enters her voice. “But Fulcrum, Kanan _is_ our objective. We can still find him!”

“At what cost? You? Your unit? The overall mission?”

Hera turns her back, shaking her head. Fulcrum sighs. “There’s something else, Hera. The transmission Ezra was able to beam out has attracted attention, not just from civilians, but from the highest levels of the Empire.”

“It was Kanan’s plan,” Hera says pointedly. “I guess it worked.”

“Your _mission_ ,” Fulcrum says, just as pointedly, “was to be unseen, unnoticed, and now—”

“Kanan wanted to inspire people,” Hera breaks in. “He wanted to give them hope.”

“Well, he was successful,” Fulcrum admits. “But if you are caught—if Ezra is caught—that hope will die. To protect your unit, to protect _Ezra_ , you must stop your search for Kanan and go into hiding.”

Hera struggles to find a retort. She can’t. The transmission cuts out.

Hera sinks to the bench, her head falling into her hands. Ezra is…her ward, and Kanan’s legacy. Fulcrum’s right. She can’t let Ezra lose his life making riskier and riskier gambles, chasing slimmer and slimmer leads. They can’t let Kanan’s sacrifice have been in vain.

All this time, she has been praying that he’s still alive, that he’s holding on. Now she whispers to the empty cabin: “Please don’t let him be afraid. Please don’t let him be in pain.

“Please…let him be dead.”

***

They start with the mind probe.

Kanan remembers: A room, small enough to be cozy, but with a high domed ceiling and wrap-around windows that suffuse the air with sunlight. A rich mosaic pattern on the floor. It was off the veranda, he thinks.

The instructor was a Gran, a woman he remembers as motherly and kind. He recalls her voice with almost perfect clarity: “You have all become adept at inducing trance states,” she told them, calmly. “The mind probe, however, presents a somewhat different challenge. The drugs will interfere with your mind-body calibration; you will not be able to employ breathing techniques and you will not be able to slow or modulate your physical responses. How, then, do we attain the mental state necessary to overcome the probe?”

“The Force?” Caleb had guessed. It was a pretty good guess: the answer was usually the Force, one way or another.

The instructor was not fooled, but she had smiled. “Yes, but how do you channel the Force when your senses are clouded and your body is unresponsive?”

“The same way we parry blaster bolts while we’re blindfolded?”

“And how is that?”

“You just—You just—” Caleb had struggled. “You just do!”

“You surrender,” said the instructor. “You don’t struggle against the probe. You don’t resist its effects. You let the drugs take you under and then you go deeper still. They will ask you questions but there will be no _you_ to answer, for you are one with the Force.”

And then she had walked to a silver tray, where an array of needles lay waiting. “Are you ready to attempt it?” she asked them, kindly. The younglings, trusting, pulled back the sleeves of their robes.

They don’t pull back Kanan’s sleeve. The droid inserts the needle directly through his clothing. He feels a momentary coldness as the fluid enters his veins.

He surrenders. He goes deeper.

“To whom do you report?” Tarkin demands.

_“They use it in mind probes now,” Hera says, bitterness shading her voice. “It’s supposed to be a spiritual experience. Just like ryll is supposed to be used to make medicine, not mind-killing spice.”_

“To whom do you report? How many cells are operating together? How many ships do the rebels command?”

_He’s sitting with her, palm to palm. His fingers close around hers. “So let’s try for some intense sensation.”_

“Agent Kallus?”

A different voice, louder, closer: “Where do you send your reports?”

_“Kanan,” she pants. “Love, please—“_

_He drops kisses down her belly, parts her thighs._

“How many ships in the rebel fleet?”

_“I might be able to show you something,” he says. “Before this wears off.”_

_“This is the Force?”_

_“I wanted you to see it, because.” He swallows. “This is what I cut myself off from for so long. This is what you brought me back to.”_

The demanding voices fall away. Kanan floats in a golden web of connection. Space and time are both meaningless constructs. Near and far mean nothing. The only distance is between spirit and spirit, and of course Hera’s is here with him.

He sees it as a web. She felt it as a dance.

He will dance with her until the dancing is done.

***

Hera sits in her cabin, staring into the dark. In a moment she will have to go out and tell the others that they are abandoning the search.

She is trying to convince herself that Kanan is already dead, but his presence is everywhere. She feels as if he might walk in at any moment. When she _wants_ him badly enough, he always comes to her.

_She can picture him perfectly: amber skin dusted with freckles, seaglass eyes intent on her alone, the twist of a smile on his lips._

_“Hera,” he says huskily, and it takes her a moment to realize he’s_ _actually_ _there, in the passageway behind her._

_“I just got here,” he says. “You called me pretty clearly.” His voice is full of affection._

_“Oh,” she says. And then he’s palming both of her lekku, and it’s just like she imagined only so much better (the leather of his gloves, the soft scrape of his fingertips)…_

This time he won’t be coming.

She should get up. Walk out. Face Ezra and Sabine and Zeb, and tell them the last of their hopes have been exhausted.

Instead she curls down, drawing her feet up, until she’s lying on the hard and empty bench. She wraps her arms around herself. She catches the tip of her tchun and deliberately rolls it between her fingers. She ignores the sudden, hot track of a tear falling down her cheek.

She thinks of her only love.

If he were here, it would be his body instead of a cold wall behind her. The solid bulk of him, surrounding and encircling her. These would be his hands running over her body.

A random eddy of recirculated air passes over her, and Hera can imagine that it’s his breath on her neck. She can almost feel his lips on her skin.

She presses her knees together tightly, squeezing her thighs. This pressure would be _him_. He always gives her exactly what she needs. If she rolls her hips, letting the pressure fade and then renew, it’s as if he was grinding against her.

“Kanan,” she whispers. He would like that. He always liked hearing her.

She strokes her own tchun and presses her thighs together until her legs are shaking. Her climax is short and sharp, and as it sweeps over her she lets out a breath like a sob.

And then another, because she _is_ sobbing, even as she tightens her arms around herself. Kanan always held her through the aftermath.

Somehow, she must find the strength to let go.

***

The web shakes. There’s a disturbance. A dark spider, unraveling the threads…and coming closer. Kanan drifts back to conscious awareness.

“It’s only a matter of time before he breaks,” Kallus is saying.

“ _You_ have wasted enough of my time.” That’s the Governor, growing impatient. Good. Maybe they’ll give up and execute him.

A man’s gotta have hope.

And then the cell door slides open, and Kanan senses the dark presence of the Inquisitor. He drags his eyes open.

“You are no doubt unaware that the Jedi are trained to resist mind probes,” the Inquisitor says calmly, pacing forward until he’s standing only a few inches from where Kanan is bound. Close enough to touch. Kanan finds himself profoundly unhappy with that realization.

“ _If_ he is the Jedi he claims to be,” Tarkin scowls. “I take it you have a solution?”

“Pain,” says the Inquisitor. “A Jedi still feels pain. And pain can break anyone.”

Kanan steels himself. It doesn’t help.

 _Keep them safe, Hera_ , he thinks. _And forgive me._

The pain goes on, and on, and on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, gondalsqueen and I have very similar takes on these characters in this position, and [this ficlet](http://gondalsqueen.tumblr.com/post/125289477657/simultaneously-the-saddest-and-dirtiest-thing-in) of hers was an influence on this chapter. If you liked this then a) you will like her fic too, and b) what is even wrong with you, no don't answer, because the same thing is wrong with me and I don't want to know.


	14. Fire Across the Galaxy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kanan and Hera don't have sex. But it's all right. Really.
> 
> Content warning for torture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [gondalsqueen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gondalsqueen/pseuds/gondalsqueen) for beta reading.

Kanan’s barely standing. The only reason he’s moving under his own power is the steady conduit of strength and energy that flows to him from Ezra. But when he pulls himself up into the transport and sees the relief and joy on Hera’s face: well, that’ll keep him on his feet for another few minutes.

“I owe you all a great debt of gratitude,” he says. “Even if what you did was rash, and reckless.”

“You’re welcome, dear,” she says, and takes him in her arms.

Chopper grundles something that Kanan translates to _Hey now! None of that_. He turns to smile fondly at the rusty astromech. Chop isn’t nearly as possessive of Hera as he was when Kanan first came aboard, but he still doesn’t like it when the organics get handsy.

“If Chopper was in this transport ship,” Ezra says, “then who was flying the Ghost?”

Kanan turns to Hera. She gives him a little smile. “There’s someone you need to meet.”

“Can I have a few minutes to wash and change?” They hadn’t let him out of the restraints, even for a minute: he’d been forced to piss himself, and knowing that it was part of the regime intended to break him doesn’t make him feel less ashamed.

“Of course,” she says. “And I’ll get the medkit.”

“Saline flush,” he tells her. They didn’t give him food, and only a few sips of water: he’s pretty sure dehydration’s the most pressing of all his issues right now. She looks pained, but nods.

There’s a moment in the sonic shower when he almost passes out. He tugs a little more deeply from his bond with Ezra—how much power does that kid _have?—_ and finishes as quickly as he can.

Hera’s waiting when he comes out. She runs her eyes over him, noting the burns. “What did they do to you, Kanan?” she says softly.

_There was only pain. And, sometimes, interludes when the Inquisitor spoke to him. Early on, Kanan stopped wishing for death, and wished instead for that voice: that horrible voice, and for its dripping, venomous words._

_Because without it there was only the pain._

“Electrocution, mostly,” he says, carefully keeping his voice steady and easy. “Mind probes. A light spot of psychological torture.” But when her eyes fill with tears he has to look away. “Don’t,” he says quietly. “I can’t—”

“Saline flush,” Hera says briskly. “And I think we can get some bacta on those burns.”

He submits to her care, although the simple act of having another person’s hands on his skin—being touched with warmth and kindness, instead of by sadistic machines—threatens to unravel him completely. He takes ragged breaths and is so glad that Hera pretends not to notice. If he loses his composure now he’ll never get it back.

Somewhat patched up and at least wearing clean pants, he goes with the rest of the crew to finally meet Fulcrum. He knows he should feel something when Ahsoka Tano introduces herself. He recognizes the name, of course: Skywalker’s apprentice, the padawan who was falsely accused of the Temple bombings and who left the Order afterwards. He supposes that’s how she managed to survive the purge.

He feels nothing. Just a dull, distant gladness that he didn’t know any of this before. Because sooner or later, he _would_ have given up everything he knew.

 _At first he’d tried to stay silent, knowing perfectly well that the Inquisitor could pick up more from his words than he intended. But by the end he could not keep himself from answering, even if it was only to say something defiant. Every moment he spoke was a moment’s relief from the pain._ _And whenever the Inquisitor asked a new question, Kanan would be flooded with a secret and terrible gratitude. It was another chance to talk. Another respite._

He feels he’s expected to say something, so he manages: “Why did you come here?”

“Because of you, and your apprentice,” she says. There’s a serene cadence to her voice that he remembers very well from the masters at the Temple. They could talk of anything—life, death, atrocities on distant worlds—without ever losing those calm and even tones.

Kanan—Caleb—Kanan never really had it. He doesn’t think.

Ahsoka talks about Ezra’s message. Says something about hope, a new day, the close of a chapter and the start of a new…oh yeah, she’s old-school. Kanan just tries to keep his eyes pointed in the right direction and his knees from buckling under him.

Eventually they’re…dismissed? Is that the word? Dismissed from the central corridor of their own ship? Ahsoka has a blasted honor guard so yeah, they were probably dismissed. Or was that the Senator’s honor guard? No, holograms don’t need guards. But then again neither do Jedi—Jedi _are_ guards. Ahsoka could definitely do more to protect those four chumps in uniform than they could do to protect her.

Kanan staggers, then catches himself—but not before he’s got Hera pressed up on one side of him and Ezra on the other. “Easy there,” he says. “I’m okay.”

“You need to rest,” Hera says firmly.

He nods. “No argument. In fact, if there’s nobody trying to kill us for the next…day, maybe?...I’m going to try to put myself in a healing trance.”

“I think we can buy you a day,” Ezra says cheerfully.

“Good. I’ll be pretty hungry when I wake up. And Hera—a few more of those saline packs while I’m out would probably help.”

“I’ll check up on you,” she says warmly. Kanan guesses she means that she won’t leave his side, but as long as they leave it unspoken he’s okay with that.

_They only left him alone when he was unconscious. That happened more and more, towards the end. But the Inquisitor could always sense when he came around. And pain always followed._

They make to his cabin. “Sleep well,” Ezra says.

“You too. You’ve earned it.”

Hera follows him inside. Kanan eases himself onto his bunk, sitting on the edge to unbuckle his armor and holster. Hera helps him draw off his boots. When he leans back on the bunk, stretching out his legs, he gives a low involuntary moan of relief.

“Something wrong?” Hera asks quickly.

“No, it’s good. They kept me standing the whole time.” He closes his eyes so he won’t have to see her face.

Her fingers pass over his hair, very lightly. Stroking his head from the forehead and back, then again. His eyes burn, but he keeps them closed. Deep breaths. Slow the heartbeat. Call on the Force. Let go and sink into it.

He’s not going to come back to her broken. A day to rest, that’s all he needs.

***

_No. No, he doesn’t want to wake. Waking only brings pain._

“Kanan?”

His whole body is rigid with fear, but he opens his eyes.

Ah. No. Yes. He’s not _there_ , he’s home. He’s in his bunk, and Hera is pressed along his side. Kanan forces himself to relax.

He feels better. Everything is back to normal.

He rolls over to face her. It’s dark in the cabin, but there’s just enough ambient light for him to see Hera eyes scanning his face anxiously. He doesn’t like that, so he kisses her. Just a tender, questioning brush of the lips at first, but when she responds, he kisses her firmly and deliberately and thoroughly.

“I thought you said you’d be hungry,” she says, after a while. Her breath is a little short.

“Maybe I am,” he says lasciviously, and curls his hand, brushing the backs of his knuckles down her cheek. She’s not wearing her cap. He wonders what she _is_ wearing, and runs a hand down her body to find out: oh, her thermal sleep-suit, of course.

She wraps her arms around him. “I missed you so much,” she says.

“I thought of you. When they—” His voice breaks. “I thought of you,” he whispers.

She holds him more tightly. He kisses her again, tasting deeply. And moves his hand to her lek, drawing it deliberately through his lightly-curled hand. She surges into him, a soft whimper escaping her throat.

It’s because her hips are pressing against his that he becomes aware: his body isn’t responding to her like it usually does. He’s as _interested_ as ever. But his cock is soft.

Not a big deal, he decides. It’s probably an after-effect of the trance. It’ll most likely wear off soon—and if it doesn’t, he’s perfectly capable of driving her wild with his hands and mouth. He could probably do it with his toes for that matter. Elbows, in a pinch.

He tugs on the closure of her wrap-around top, then pulls it open. The shadows of the dimmed cabin only accentuate the beauty of her curves. Her smooth skin bared to his sight alone. He presses soft kisses along the arch of her neck, traveling down to her lovely firm-tipped breasts.

_He’s not talking. He’s not talking and that means the pain will start again—_

Kanan’s body jerks in anticipation of an electric strike that does not land. Beside him, Hera tenses, startled by his sudden motion.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“Kanan—”

“No, it’s fine,” he says. Urgent. Talking over her, before she can tell him something he doesn’t want to hear.

He slides an arm beneath her, guiding her to shift until her back settles against his chest, lekku drawn forward to drape across her higher shoulder. Oh, he’s always liked this very much. He can hold her and explore her body at his leisure. He can know that she’s safe and that she’s his.

And as he touches and teases and rouses her, he’ll have the pleasure of feeling her writhe against him. That’ll be enjoyable even _if_ he’s too wrung out to appreciate it properly.

She wraps her hand around his. “I’m here, love,” she says.

_The cell door opened. “Hmm,” said the Inquisitor. “Something’s changed.”_

_“I’m…just as glad to see you as always…handsome,” Kanan managed._

_The response was electricity, and screams. Kanan’s screams._

_“They’re here. So predictable.”_

_His clothes were still smoking, his nerves were still on fire, and Kanan had no idea what the Inquisitor was talking about. He wanted to answer, desperately—answering makes the pain stop—but his mouth was too dry to form words._

“Kanan!”

She’s twisting in his arms, grabbing his shoulder, shaking him.

“It’s—I’m fine,” he manages.

“You are _not_ fine!” He’s shocked by her sudden vehemence: she looks into his widened eyes and softens her tone. “You were starved and you were drugged and you were exhausted and terrorized. You were tortured for _days_. You are not. Fine.”

“I’m pretty tough,” he says. It’s meant to be reassuring but she just narrows her eyes. “Hera, it will take more than that to break me.”

“You’re not broken,” she says, her voice soft but full of intensity. “You’re _hurt_.”

He swallows. “I’ve been better,” he admits finally.

“Love, you _did_ it.” She puts a hand on his cheek. “You saved us. You beat the Inquisitor. You brought Ezra home.” Her eyes are shimmering in the darkness. “You can stop pushing yourself, now. We’re safe. It’s all right.”

He bends his head, resting his face against her shoulder. And then he convulses: his eyes are dry, but his body heaves with sobs, he’s wracked with them. His mouth opens in a silent cry, an unvoiced scream muffled by her skin.

She tightens her grasp on his shoulders, pulling him against her with all her strength. She holds him as he shakes. When at last he collapses back, exhausted, she puts her head on his chest. And he realizes then that her cheeks are wet with all the tears he could not produce.

“You’re hurt,” she says, her voice low and rough and fierce. “But you’ll heal. You _saved_ us. Let us take care of you.”

He closes his eyes. “All right,” he breathes.

Her fingers trace over his skin. She takes a deep, shaking breath. But when she speaks, there’s a smile in her voice. “Zeb said he’d make those spicy slurpy noodles you like when you woke up.”

He laughs. It’s strained and there’s something dark lurking just beneath, but it’s still a laugh.

“I do like those noodles,” he says.


	15. Siege of Lothal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kanan and Hera totally have sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole fic owes so much to [gondalsqueen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gondalsqueen/pseuds/gondalsqueen), not just for her (very good) editing advice and character analysis, but also for her encouragement and generally insightful and inspiring conversation.

“Hey! What’s with you? Do you have any idea how inappropriate that was?”

It’s nice that she’s yelling at him. He supposes. Better than being treated like a porcelain monkey-bird on some grandma’s knick knack shelf. Kanan turns and gives her his best roguish shrug. “Actually no! I don’t!”

But Hera grabs his shoulder, which arrests him at once. They haven’t touched for weeks.

There were a few times, early after his return from Mustafar, that they tried. Kanan’s body was stubbornly uncooperative. Some kind of lingering block—he tried meditating on it, and he thinks it has something to do with the conviction that he _hurt_ her.

Which. He unquestionably did, when he got himself captured by Tarkin and the Inquisitor. It was for pretty good reasons, though. And maybe—if she would just trust him again—he could heal that pain.

But what he’s gotten from her isn’t trust. It’s pity. And a pity fuck from Hera is the last thing that he wants in the whole blasted universe. He’d frankly rather screw a rancor.

So, yeah, those encounters ended increasingly badly. Neither of them has had the courage to try for almost a month now. Plus, there’s always all these other people around now.

She’s got to feel him go rigid, but she doesn’t move her hand. And she talks to him like he’s five years old. “You can’t just tell Chopper to project a hologram in a secret debriefing without authorization.”

That’s irritating enough that he sweeps her hand away. “Authorization! Procedure! That’s what’s bothering me.”

(It isn’t.)

(Well, not entirely.)

She holds up her hands, placating. “All right, talk to me.”

That’s at least a normal tone of voice, and Kanan exhales, consciously dropping some of his defensive energy.

“After this mission,” he says, leaning in: “I want us to go back on our own.” She scowls, and the next thing he has to say could easily come across the wrong way, so he says it as gently as possible: “Fighting alongside soldiers isn’t what I signed up for.”

He doesn’t mean _I’m going to cut and run._ She knows that, right? She knows him better than that?

Maybe not, because her reaction is both swift and emotional. She grabs his shoulders and pushes him into the nearest semi-secluded passageway.

He lets her, of course. Historically, it’s fair to say that there’s very little he likes _more_ than being pushed up against a wall by Hera. In fact, even now he instinctively folds his body down as his back hits the bulkhead: he wants to make sure she has access to any part of him she cares to reach.

But all she’s doing is shaking a finger in his face. “You seem to be forgetting these soldiers helped save your life!”

Yeah. Great. How many times is she going to bring _that_ up. “And I’m grateful,” he says, as patiently as he can. “But that doesn’t mean I want to join their little army.”

This is important. This is something he has to make her understand. Because he’s not leaving unless she comes with him: and he’s not sure she understands just how badly this sort of thing can end. He can’t lose his temper.

He reaches for her. She touched him first, it’s got to be okay. “When you and I started together,” he says, “it was ‘Rob from the Empire, give to the needy.’ A noble cause. Now we’re getting drawn into some kind of military thing! I don’t like it.”

Her voice is soft, almost pleading. “We are fighting a bigger fight. But it’s still the right fight.”

“I survived one war,” Kanan says bitterly. “I’m not ready for another one.” He turns, but she grabs his arm. “I saw what it did,” he says.

“To the Jedi?”

Pity. He can’t _stand_ her pity. “To everyone,” he says flatly, and pulls away.

***

He’s not deliberately pushing her buttons. If she didn’t want a swaggering gunslinger who mouths off to anyone and everyone, maybe she should have recruited some _other_ roughneck for her war.

“We’ll need a distraction,” she says.

He knows she means: make a plan, set up an escape route, but honestly who has time for all that when Kanan is plenty _distracting_ all on his own? “Well, I’m gonna go make a few friends,” he says. “When Tua arrives, I’ll keep ‘em busy while you drop into the hangar from above.”

She’s scowling. “Make a few friends?”

“It’ll be fun.”

“Fun?”

Her skepticism is so aggravating. This is what they do, isn’t it? Hera tells him what she needs and Kanan makes it happen. He’s good at it. She used to _trust_ him. Is she afraid he’s going to end up in Imperial interrogation every time he goes into the field?

“Don’t worry, _General_ Hera,” he says, sketching a salute. “Just be ready to move.” And he claps her on the shoulder as he heads off.

Okay. Maybe the button-pushing is somewhat deliberate. He even gives her another salute after he’s stripped a stormtrooper and dressed himself in the armor. Just in case the first time was too, y’know. Subtle.

And his part of the plan goes fine, for the record. Although obviously the part where Minister Tua blows up is less than optimal.

***

Also not optimal, the Sith Lord who appears to cut off their retreat.

“Hera, go!” Kanan shouts. “We’ll cover you!”

But she just stands there. “Kanan, watch out!” Karabast, he would _be_ watching out if she would just _trust him_ and **go**.

The Sith has more raw power than Kanan would have ever believed possible. They bury him under an exploding walker and he…shrugs it off. Sabine tries to shoot him and he deflects the bolts right back in her face. (Blast it, Kanan should have warned her about that.) They barely manage to escape, and he knows there’s no chance of their shuttle making it through the Imperial blockade.

Hera suggests Lando. If Kanan didn’t know better, he’d think it was payback for the _General Hera_ crack.

But she’s not deliberately pushing his buttons. Is she?

It takes the rest of the night for them to get to Lando’s property—the shuttle’s not swift, and they have to keep out of the regular flight paths in order to avoid notice. They take shifts so everyone can grab a few hours of sleep. There’s no bunks; they have to curl up in whatever nooks they can find.

While Chopper flies the shuttle and Hera sleeps, Kanan settles down beside her to work on his shoulder guard. The Sith Lord landed a blow that’s burnt and dented the armor, and Kanan knows his shoulder will be black and blue by morning. Every now and then he glances over at Hera. The soft, sweet expression of her face in sleep makes his heart hurt.

He’s supposed to wake her so Chopper can get a maintenance cycle, but instead he helms the shuttle himself. “Couldn’t sleep anyway,” he tells her when she wanders into the cockpit just before dawn, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

She doesn’t say anything, just lays a hand on the back of his neck, her thumb moving in little circles. His breath catches. Outside the shuttle, the sun crests the horizon, and for just a moment the world seems at peace.

Then he sees the smoke rising from what used to be Tarkintown, and he knows there won’t be peace for any of them until they’ve escaped Lothal.

***

He should have known it was too easy. But honestly, it doesn’t seem easy while they’re gunning for orbit, and anxiously tracking the intercept paths of the TIEs scrambling around them.

“Never thought I’d say this, but thank you, Lando Calrissian!” Hera chirps. (Wait. That is totally deliberate button-pushing.)

He doesn’t take the bait. What he has to say instead is going to genuinely disappoint and upset her, and he’s sorry for that. But the question has to be raised: “So if we can’t go back to Lothal, where are we going?”

She shakes her head. “What are you talking about?” Her voice is entreating. “We’re part of the rebellion now.”

“Are we? Are we all sure about that?”

Sabine speaks up in support: “Maybe we could just grab the Ghost and lay low for a while.” Kanan watches Hera’s face change as she realizes this decision might go against her.

But Zeb says quietly: “I like fighting with Phoenix Squadron. Reminds me of the Honor Guard. Besides, they’re counting on us. Wouldn’t be right to abandon them now.”

Hera steels herself. “Ezra? What do you think?”

“We can’t help Lothal now,” the kid says slowly. “But I think the rebels can help us get stronger. So we can go back and change things.”

And now it’s Kanan who realizes the choice has been made--and he's lost. Because Ezra might be his padawan, but the kid's been learning from Hera at the same time. When they first picked him up Ezra was concerned only with his own survival. Now he’s absorbed her optimism and idealism. He’s signed on to her cause.

“I think we should stay with the rebel fleet,” Ezra finishes, and Kanan can only nod in capitulation.

***

“How can one fighter best our entire squadron?”

“Your pilots are outmatched, Commander!” Hera cries.

“Uh,” Kanan says, as she runs for the door. “What are you doing?”

“Getting involved.” She doesn’t look back and she doesn’t wait.

Seriously? After all this time, she thinks he won’t back her up? “Not without me, you’re not!”

***

It goes okay. They lose the command ship, but they could have lost a lot more. Kanan helps Ahsoka make a connection to the Sith Lord’s mind, which turns out to have been a very bad idea: he barely manages to catch her before she hits the deck, and even once she’s recovered, she hasn’t learned anything useful.

“I haven’t felt a presence like that since—”

“The Clone Wars,” Ahsoka agrees. “But I do know that he will be coming. They’ll all be coming now.”

“We’ve got to be ready to fight!” Ezra cries.

How can he make the kid understand? “We must find the strength to fight,” Kanan says somberly. “But the greater courage is knowing when _not_ to fight.”

“And we’ll be beside you,” Hera says warmly. “Either way.”

She lays a hand on his shoulder and gives him a genuine smile. He smiles back. Yes, that much was never in doubt: where she goes, he’ll follow.

***

“Kanan, wait up.”

Hera catches up to him outside his cabin. He turns and raises an eyebrow.

“I—just wanted to thank you,” she says. She’s picking her words carefully. “I know you have your reservations about…all of this. But it means a lot to know I can count on you.”

“Of course you can.”

She meets his eyes. The pause goes on a second too long. He sees the flush steal over her. Any other time this would lead to a very predictable place—his cabin is _right there_. He lifts a hand, then checks himself.

“Do you,” she says with uncharacteristic hesitancy. “Do you want—”

He punches open the door. “There is nothing I want more,” he says fervently, and draws her inside.

Her arms settle around his waist. He bends his head near hers, closes his eyes and breathes deeply: there it is, the faint, honey-rich scent of her skin. He sighs in satisfaction and pulls her closer. It has been far too long.

But when he opens his eyes, about to kiss her, he’s arrested by the strangely fixed look on her face. He touches her chin and tilts her face upwards. “What is this?” he says. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying not to have an expression,” she says. “Last time you stormed off because you didn’t like my expression.”

Yes, the big sad eyes full of pained sympathy. He couldn’t take it. But now his lips twitch. “Well, this one isn’t working, either,” he says.

Her eyes flash with annoyance. She scowls at him, lips pressed tight in frustration. “That’s actually much better!” he grins. “You couldn’t possibly get so irritated with me unless you really cared.”

She tilts her head. “Oh, I think you’ll find most people you meet _care_ about you that way, Kanan Jarrus,” she says sweetly, and he laughs out loud.

“You love it that I’m mouthy and insubordinate,” he says. “Keeps things from getting boring.”

“No, I love that you’re brave and talented and good,” she says. “I put up with the mouth, there’s a difference.”

“You love it,” he says, and sets himself to proving it with a long, slow kiss. He moves his hand from her chin to cup the back of her head, and runs his other hand up and down her back. Gradually she relaxes into him. Her fists clench into his shirt and she makes a soft throaty noise against his mouth. Oh, this is better. This is _much_ better. Last time they tried this she was handling him like he was made of glass, and sneaking concerned glances at his face every time she thought he wasn’t looking.

He drops his head, kissing her neck, and flicks open the clasp to her cap. She tugs at his shirt, sliding her gloved hands against his skin.

And then he hisses, flinching—her hand rubbed up against his bruised shoulder.

It’s just a momentary ache. Much worse is the look of concern and dismay on her face. “It’s just a bruise,” he says, catching her hand before she can withdraw it. He moves it over to the other side of his chest. “See? Fine.”

Her face freezes. “Hera,” he says dangerously.

“I’m not! This is no expression at all!”

“Go back to angry,” he says. “That was working for me.”

Hera taps a finger against his chest. “I think _you_ need to stop looking at _me_ ,” she says. “I’m serious. Can we blindfold you?”

He waggles his eyebrows. “I don’t know. Can you?”

She lowers her chin, looking up at him with suddenly daring eyes. She drops her hand, tugging lightly at the bottom of his shirt. “Take this off,” she says, her voice low and husky, “and go lie down on the bunk.”

“Ma’am, yes ma’am.” There’s a flash of something in her eyes—was that too close to the General Hera crack? Well, fine. He knows for a fact that people can be irritated as fire with him and still want to fuck him.

He strips off the shoulder armor and shrugs out of his pullover and undershirt. Oh. That really is a rather impressive bruise. His whole right shoulder is purple, shading to a rich magenta down his chest and arm. “I should let Sabine paint that,” he mutters.

Hera makes a tiny noise and then swallows it. When he looks up, she’s very pointedly engrossed in removing her gloves.

So he kicks off his boots, unstraps his belt and holster, and stretches out on the bunk. He leaves his pants on, though. He’s conscious that his body still isn’t responding the way he’d like.

He wants her. That’s not the problem. He wants her like a seed wants earth, like a comet wants its star.

The problem is… that she lost him, for a little while, and that when he came back to her he was wounded. And now she can’t stop hurting for him, and _he_ can’t stand to be with her while he’s _hurting her._

Kanan heaves a sigh. Seriously, maybe he can annoy her into forgetting to ache for him. It wasn’t a deliberate strategy but it’s gotten them farther than anything else.

She steps closer. His skin tenses with the awareness of her presence. He feels taut as the string of an instrument: if she touches him, his body will sing.

Instead she carefully lays her glove across his eyes.

“Okay,” he says, “but I _really like_ looking at you, Hera.”

“I’ll tell you what I’m doing,” she says.

He sighs again, but holds still. “You’d better paint some pretty good word-pictures.”

“Right now I’m looking at you,” she says.

There’s a smile in her voice, so he answers with his own: “Do you like what you see?”

A pause. When she answers, her voice is different: less teasing. More raw. She picks her words slowly and carefully. “I see you, Kanan. Your—your chest is rising and falling with your breath.” She clears her throat. “Yes. I like looking at that.”

He feels the warmth of her small hand, touching him just below the shoulder. “I like this whole area,” she says. “The shoulder…chest…area.”

“Well, go on,” he says. “And if you’re looking for the right words, please consider: manly, well-muscled, and rock-hard.”

“Hush, you’re ruining this.”

“Sorry.” He’s grinning.

“It’s just,” she says. “It’s just nice. Even with that bruise. That is a _spectacular_ bruise.”

“Right?”

“I’m going to kiss you now,” she says, and then he feels her soft warm lips on his. He kisses her back, as much as he can without lifting his head. She’s definitely in control, though: a couple of times she pulls away, only to settle against him again from another angle.

“I wish your hair was loose,” she says finally.

So he carefully reaches behind his head—slowly, so as not to jostle her glove loose—and pulls out his hair thong. “Talk about my hair next,” he says.

“Oh, you know what I think about your hair.”

“I do and I don’t,” he says, seriously. “I know you like it, and I like that.”

There—her fingers on his neck. She sweeps a hand through his hair, arranging it against the pillow. “All right,” she says. “Well. I know you don’t feel it like…not like my lekku, or anything.”

Kanan raises his left arm, the one nearest to her. “Can I touch you?” he says. His voice is a little rough, because what he’s asking for isn’t a small thing.

She catches his hand in hers. He follows her guidance, and when she places his palm against her skin, he lets his fingers curl gently and stroke downwards. “Oh,” she says softly.

He repeats the motion, a little more strongly. The noise she makes in response isn’t even a word anymore.

And…he’s trying not to be too aware of this, but he can’t help but feel the blood pulsing into his cock. “Hera,” he breathes. “Talk.”

“Unh,” she says. “Your hair. It’s…not the same, but…it sort of is? I mean. You wouldn’t let anyone but me do this.”

His scalp tingles as her fingers pull through his hair. “No,” he says. “I wouldn’t. But you can touch me anywhere.”

His fingers have found the tip of her—he thinks it’s the right one. Tchin. He pinches it deliberately and hears her ragged gasp.

“Hold—” she says. “Hold on.”

And then she pulls away. He hears fabric rustle. “Word-pictures, Hera,” he reminds her.

“I’m taking off my clothes,” she says.

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

Then her hand is on his again. She pulls his palm against her—oh, that’s the swell of her breast. “You should have told me how beautiful you are,” Kanan says hoarsely. “But I can picture it pretty well.”

He sweeps his fingers across her skin, making the tips of her breasts tighten. He caresses and teases her until she moans. He keeps his head still—her glove has nothing more than balance and gravity keeping it in place—but he reaches his right hand for her as well. She must be leaning over the bunk now, arching her back into his touch.

And he’s finally relaxing, on whatever level it is that allows him to believe in _her_ trust in him…some kind of double-blind hand-to-hand combat maneuver that ends in both parties panting and satisfied. He slides his hands to her arms and tugs her down.

Her mouth finds his again, and her body settles above his. Warm skin, naked and soft all along his length. It was stupid of him not to take off the pants.

Her fingers tangle in his hair. He kisses her and runs his hands up and down her body, dwelling with extra relish on the sweet curve of her ass and the graceful fall of her lekku. He can’t see her but…he can. Not just in his mind’s eye, but because he can feel her response to his touch.

She grinds her hips down against his. He’s very, very hard and it’s only several minutes later that he remembers to be surprised about that.

“Hera,” he says. “I’m going to take over now. If you don’t mind.”

But she lays her hand over his face, holding the glove on his eyes. “Promise you won’t walk out on me if I look at you wrong.”

“It’s my cabin,” he points out. “I wouldn’t really have anywhere to go.”

“Promise.”

He sighs. “Yes.”

She pulls her hand back, taking the glove with it. He blinks, focusing on her. Naked and beautiful and looking at him with beseeching, apprehensive eyes.

That’s all right, that’s something he can fix. He pushes himself up on one elbow, shifting her weight to the side, and he nuzzles the side of her head—kissing the base of her lek, letting his breath skim over her earcone—until she sighs in happiness. He eases her back against the bunk and presses kisses into her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, her belly.

The next time he pulls back to look at her, her eyes are closed and her face is blissful. As he studies her face she moves her hand, brushing her fingers across his knuckles. Her eyes open, just barely—a glimmer beneath heavy lids. “Kanan,” she murmurs. “Please.”

His heart clenches. “I’m here, Hera,” he says. “I’m here and I’m yours and I’m not going anywhere.”

“I love you,” she says, low and raw. “I _need_ you.”

A warmth that is gratitude and relief and desire all in one surges over him. He drops his head lower, gently pushing her knees apart. She yields to him, and his lips and tongue find her most vulnerable places.

He can sense the pleasure he’s bringing her. It washes over him too, pulses inside him with each of her little gasps and cries. He takes his time, bringing her closer and closer to the brink without ever _quite_ giving her the pressure and rhythm that would push her over the edge.

The last barriers between them crumble, and Kanan falls into a state of perfect awareness and focus. He’s fully attuned to her responses and beyond that, nothing at all. Though it’s a _nothing_ that is everything, because Hera’s quick breaths are the pulse of life through the universe, and the connection between the two of them is the web of all things, and Kanan is never so completely himself than when he’s able to lose himself utterly in her.

He slides a finger inside her, then another. She’s shaking and panting beneath him. She tugs at his hair and moans his name. At last he grinds his tongue against her, firm and relentless, until she comes apart.

Kanan rests his cheek on her stomach, stroking a hand gently down her hip and leg while she recovers. She curls around him and takes shivery breaths.

Slowly, he varies the arc of his hand on her skin, sweeping his palm down her leg and drawing it back along the inside of her thigh. Again, and again, each time nudging her a little more open, until at last he drags his fingers over her cunt and she whimpers in response.

He traces little circles against her folds, lightly at first, pressing harder as her body reawakens to his touch. Her hips twitch beneath him. “Kanan,” she breathes, pulling at his shoulder.

He lets her draw him up to settle next to her, though he doesn’t break the rhythm of his fingers rubbing into her. She winds her arms around his neck and kisses him, urgent and hot. He tastes and touches her until the waves of sensation swamp her, until she’s unmoored and floating in pure sweet intense _need_ , and he’s the one holding her up.

It takes her a little longer this time, but he’s in no hurry. In fact he’s barely aware of the passage of time. His eyes are closed: he can see her better through his other senses. He can see her beauty and her kindness and her fierce shining love.

She’ll always hurt when he hurts. And he’ll never stop blaming himself for anything that brings her pain. But there is also _this_ , these moments of absolute connection and joy, and with time and trust they will always find their way back here.

When she comes, it’s with her arms clenched around him and his name on her lips. The relief of it rolls through him too.

He holds her until she comes back to herself. When her breathing has evened out, he begins to kiss her again, small soft nips of his mouth on her lips and earcone and neck. She sighs and runs her hands down his chest, then pulls at the clasp of his pants.

When her hand wraps around him, Kanan’s awareness returns to himself: he opens his eyes and finds Hera smiling at him, a sleepy little satisfied smirk. He kisses her again, then rolls off the bunk just long enough to shed the last of his clothes.

When he stretches out beside her again, she curls towards him but he pushes her gently, guiding her to turn inward. She yields, rolling on to her side. Kanan presses himself against her back, running his hands slowly over her hips and breasts, nuzzling at her lek.

Her responses are pleased but muted. She’s sated and sleepy: he doesn’t think he’ll be able to bring her to a third peak. “Want to go to sleep?” he murmurs.

But: “No, I want you,” she says.

So he draws up her knee, exposing just enough of her flesh that he can push into her from behind. She gasps: “Will this work?” he asks, caressing her hip.

“Yes,” she says, and then “ _yes_ ,” more strongly, as he sinks into her a little more. He spends some time just stroking her, giving her body time to adjust to him, until she breathes: “Kanan, love.” Then he pushes into her fully, and the tight heat of her makes him groan.

It won’t take much. If she wasn’t already spent, he’d try to hold back, to build up slowly and draw out his own responses. But now that he’s slipped out of his trance state, he’s achingly aware of how long it’s been and how desperately he wants her.

He starts slow anyway, because he needs to be sure that she’s ready, but she makes low throaty noises of encouragement with every stroke. And his hands are filled with her, his lips are on her skin: “Hera,” he gasps. “ _Hera_.”

And then his senses explode with ecstasy, he’s shaken and wrung with it. When the storm of sensation ends he rolls on his back, breathing heavily. Every part of his body feels languid and loose.

Hera nestles against his side. “Can you stay?” he says at last.

“Mm-hmm,” she hums. She sounds half asleep already. He sweeps a thumb over her shoulder and listens to her breathing as it grows deep and even.

He’s still got his misgivings about this war she’s fighting. But so long as he’s by her side, then he’s where he belongs.

And everything else, they will face together.


End file.
